Bruce Alexander - The Color of Death

Mr. Collier turned sharply to me. “Is this true?”

“Well …”

“Oh, all right then, why not? It would do me good to get out for a bit, so long as you, Charles,” he spoke pointedly to Mr. Hill, “let me finish in here another time.”

“Tomorrow, I promise,” said Mr. Hill. He was most reassuring.

“Well, enough then, young man,” said Mr. Collier to me. “Let me get my hat, and well be on our way.”

And so, in a short time we were in a hackney and on our journey to Field Lane. If it was far enough to justify a coach ride, the distance was even greater from St. James Street if measured in guineas, crowns, and shillings. We went from high to low in no more than a few miles, from luxury to misery. When at last the ride was done, Mr. Collier stepped down from the coach, looked around him, and shuddered.

“Is this what awaits me?” he moaned. Not knowing the answer, nor even what, precisely, he had meant by that, I said nothing.

In most ways, perhaps, it looked like any other street in London’s poorer districts — that is to say, no worse than most. (It was said that there were far more squalorous locations across the river.) Nevertheless, an air of desperation seemed to brood over the length of it, foul as the smell that rose from the Fleet River — a veritable sewer — nearby. Those who walked it up and down, men and women both, went with stooped shoulders and bowed heads; even the children in the street played listlessly, never raising their voices nor laughing. The four pawnshops stood scattered along the narrow way, two on the east side and two on the west side. Why they should be gathered there so closely, I have no idea. Yet there they were, and we were bound to visit each of them, and search them all through. We stood on Holborn Hill; I indicated the direction, and we set off to perform the task for which we had come.

The contents of pawnshops do not charm me, and neither do the shops themselves, except in rare instances, interest me. I had, by the time of that visit, taken a sufficient number of robbery victims through Field Lane, so that I know, and was known by sight by, each of the four proprietors. There was no need for me to display the warrant I carried in my coat pocket. I went unchallenged. They said nothing but simply fell back and allowed me and my companion to prowl through the shop as long as we liked. Mr. Collier was, indeed, thorough. He went slowly through each pile, dug into every corner, and sorted through the contents of drawers and compartments. There was no need for me to call to his attention any area that he had neglected because he neglected none. I helped simply by knowing the plan of each of the shops and introducing him to storage areas he might not otherwise have known about.

Thus we went through all four of the shops. We then went back to Holborn Hill where I waved down a hackney coach. As we boarded, I said to Mr. Collier, “There is but one more shop that I should like you to go through. It is on our way back to St. James Street.”

“I have no objection,” said he, “though I hope it is not near so sad as that last street you took me to.”

“Bedford Street,” I called up to the driver.

“That’s said to be a dangerous place.”

“After dark, perhaps, though not at this hour.”

He lapsed into silence as we began our journey. He had traveled just as quietly to Field Lane.

Our destination, of course, was the shop that had formerly belonged to George Bradbury, who served as fence to Covent Garden’s most skilled and dedicated thieves. Mr. Bradbury died for his sins, and his widow sold the pawnshop, lock and stock, when she emigrated to the North American colonies. Since then I had called there perhaps two or three times to make the sort of search I had done more often up in Field Lane. The new owner, a man by the name of Garland, was too honest or perhaps too timid to engage in the sort of backdoor enterprise in which the former owners had engaged so eagerly.

In any case, the trip did not take a great deal of time, and we were deposited right in the middle of Bedford Street, which put us directly before Mr. Garland’s shop.

“Here we are,” said I to my companion. I climbed down and paid off the driver.

“Well,” said Mr. Collier, emerging into the light and looking the street up and down, “it doesn’t look so bad.”

“It is, as I said, a street like most in London until night falls and the villains and scamps come and claim the ale houses and dives as their own.”

At just that moment, a drunken wretch came hurtling through the open door of a low place next to the pawnshop; he landed in the gutter nearby. The innkeeper leaned out the door and snarled a few curses at the poor fellow before retiring into the darkness of the gin shop.

Mr. Collier watched the offender attempt vainly to push himself up to his feet. He turned to me. “You say it’s worse than this after dark?”

“Oh, much,” said I.

Pointing to the pawnshop door, I herded him forward and inside. The proprietor of the place, Mr. Garland, was there immediately to meet us.

“We should like to take a look around,” said I. “The magistrate has sent me.”

“I know who you are. I remembers you from your last visit,” said he.

Mr. Collier had already begun his inspection, looking at clocks and vases and other bits and pieces standing about the front of the shop. It did not take long. He simply shook his head in the negative and turned toward the door, presuming that we were done.

“We shall be looking in the back room, as well,” said I to the shopkeeper.

“Well and good,” said he, striving to contain his anger, “but I told you once I do not engage in such illegal trade. Why will you not believe me?”

“In a word, Mr. Garland, because he who preceded you had a long history of it. And his widow, from whom you bought the shop, put her very heart into such dealings. Of that I can speak from some personal knowledge.”

“I’ll not ask what that knowledge is. I’ve heard enough about her — murdered her husband, she did, or so they say. Heard about it a hundred times, at least.” He shrugged and waved a hand dismissively. “All I know is she gave me a good price on the place, and the stock. And that’s all I need to know.”

As we went thus at each other, Mr. Collier slipped past us and into the rear room, which I knew from my earlier searches contained most of the ticketed items in the shop. We followed him. And I noted immediately that Mr. Garland had done a great deal of work putting to order the chaotic jumble that earlier prevailed in the large rear room. That made Mr. Collier’s work much easier. He went swiftly through the room just as he had those in Field Lane. He lingered only at the two stacks of paintings mounted in their frames piled upright against the wall. Yet he did not linger long. He was done as quickly as I might have hoped. Mr. Garland was glad to see us go and said as much.

It took little to persuade Mr. Collier to continue the rest of the way on foot. We were soon away from Bedford Street, and out on the Strand, and into the swarm of humanity. Crowded it may have been, yet it looked a bit better and smelled better than what we had left behind. I know that my companion noticed the improvement, for he commented upon it.

“Ah,” said he, “how good it is to be getting back to my part of town.”

“Your part of town, sir?”

“Why, indeed! I may be but a humble butler, but all of my employment has been in that area in which you found me — St. James Street, St. James Square, Great Jermyn Street, the best addresses in London. There are few who would differ with me on that.”

“Well, no doubt they are very good addresses, Mr. Collier, but would it be fair to say that they were your addresses? After all, sir, to take the most convenient example, Lord and Lady Lilley no doubt would contest your claim.”