Bruce Alexander - The Color of Death

“Oh, no doubt they would.”

“They would say it was their address.”

“Ah, but I lived there, too, and ran the house.”

“Does that give you the right to claim it as your own?”

He considered my question. “Not the whole house, perhaps.” Then did he puff up a bit; his chin went up, and his chest came out, attracting curious glances from the passersby. “But the address was as much mine as it was that of the duke and duchess.”

“That much I’ll grant, but — ”

“You seem an intelligent lad,” said he, interrupting. “Let me tell you that I’ve been doing some thinking since I was thrown out so coldly from that house in St. James Street. I believe I shall avail you of a bit of it.” He paused but briefly, then plunged on: “I despise myself as I was there — far too eager to please, far too fearful of giving offense. I was an arse-kisser — or to put it less vulgarly, a toady, a sycophant, a … a …”

“A lickspittle?”

“Precisely! And why did I play such a role? Why, to curry favor, to seek recognition from my employer that I might be liked, well-treated, given greater responsibility. And, let us ask, who was my employer? One who was, in every way but two, my inferior. Which is to say, first of all, that he had a title, and secondly, that he had great wealth, more than he could ever spend in his lifetime.”

“I do not understand,” said I. “Since he has a title and great wealth, how can you claim to be superior to him in every other way? It may not be just, but that is how the world measures greatness. What other ways are there?”

“Well … well …” he sputtered, “taste for one thing. I believe I told you, young sir, that Lord Lilley valued his possessions purely according to what he had paid for them. Nor is he alone in that. There is not one duke or earl in the realm who can claim to possess even a modicum of personal taste. If it were not for Italians and Frenchmen here in London, and an occasional word from a butler” — he did then give a mischievous wink — “their houses would go unfurnished and their walls empty. They are so utterly without taste that, left on their own, they would not know what to buy.”

His long rant put me somewhat on the defensive. After all, I was well aware that our quarters at Number 4 Bow Street were rather bare of adornment. We had not a single picture on the wall, nor one piece of statuary, and the rooms were furnished with odds and ends left behind after brother Henry’s departure for Portugal (and his subsequent death). What use had a blind man for such? And Lady Fielding, for all her pretensions, was quite indifferent to the decorative or visual arts. In short, we lived well enough without taste.

“How can it be so important?” I asked in a manner which I meant to seem dismissive. (I began at this point to peer ahead, searching for a place where I might conveniently part company with this pouter-pigeon of a fellow.)

“Important? My dear boy, taste is more than important! Le bon gout e’ejt tout/” he declared, making a neat little French rhyme of it — then translating helpfully, “Good taste is all — everything!”

We had come to the end of the Strand and the beginning of Charing Cross Road, a perfectly suitable sort of place for me to send Mr. Collier on his way, a smile on my face as I delivered a firm pat to him on his back. I had more than begun the goodbye ritual, in fact had even delivered that final pat on the back, when he looked me in the eye and declared: “Young man, I am disappointed in you.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”

“No more than I am sorry to tell you. I thought, when I noted your eye roaming o’er the Vermeers and the Rubens in Mr. Zondervan’s gallery, ‘Now’, there is a lad who may not know much but who perhaps could be taught.’ But unfortunately …”

“I really must be going,” said I, “but you’ll be all right from here on.”

“Of course I will. But let us consider Mr. Zondervan. Now, the man has taste, no doubt of that — I should be the last to dispute it. Nevertheless, to keep his artistic treasures hidden away as he does and under lock and key, that truly seems most unfortunate. Who is he hiding them from?”

“Mr. Collier, I thank you for your cooperation, but now I must return to Bow Street.” I said it quite firmly. “Goodbye.”

“What? Oh, I suppose so. Yes, goodbye.”

With that, I turned round and left him where he stood, separate lines of pedestrians flowing on either side of him. Yet after a few steps I turned back for another look. I caught sight of him, moving along now, gesturing with his hands so that I was sure that he was still talking, even though I was no longer with him to listen. But then the crowd swallowed him up; he had quite disappeared.

He seemed perhaps a bit mad, pushed into that state by his rude dismissal. He had annoyed me, it was true, but far more than annoyance, I felt pity for the old man (he must have been forty or more).

I had a great desire to talk about him with someone. But with whom? It did not seem proper to discuss him with Sir John or Lady Katherine. Annie, it struck me, would have little interest in him. That left only Clarissa. Well, why not? She, at least, would see the drama in it. I wondered vaguely what she might have to say.

So you see, reader, the first day of my investigation may have gone quickly, as I said, yet it was not particularly fruitful. I vowed when I took myself up to bed that night that tomorrow I would do better.

Though I could only guess at what time of night it may have been, footsteps upon the stairs to my room brought me wide awake out of a deep sleep.

“Who is there?” I challenged the intruder.

“It is I, Jeremy.” The voice was Lady Fielding’s. She came to the open door of my room and leaned inside, no more than a light form against the darkness of the hall.

I rose up in bed to show that I was fully awake. “What is it?” I asked. “Is Sir John well?”

“Oh yes, but one of the constables has come with word of another great robbery. Jack cannot go, he simply cannot.”

“I agree.”

“I would not even wake him to tell him. I fear you will have to go and act in his stead.”

“It will take me no time at all to be ready. If anyone is waiting downstairs, you may tell him that I shall be there in minutes.”

And, indeed, I was. Fully dressed but with shoes in hand, I descended the stairs. At the bedchamber of Sir John and Lady Fielding I paused a moment to hear his steady breathing. As I did, she appeared and whispered, “Take care, Jeremy.” Then did she surprise me with a motherly kiss upon the cheek. And I continued upon my way.

Below, none other than Constable Patley awaited me. Mr. Baker, for his part, stood ready for me, holding two pistols in holsters, prepared to buckle them about my waist. As he did this, he cautioned me to hold my fire as long as possible, and aim carefully at the trunk. It sounded like good advice. I only hoped that in the event I should have the presence of mind to follow it. But, having been readied for the worst, I could now depart. After I thanked Mr. Baker, we set off into the night.

Constable Patley was my companion and my guide. As we made our way, he recounted to me all that he knew of the crime. It seemed that Mr. Bailey, the captain of the Bow Street Runners, had been his companion this night when again they were approached by someone, a servant of a house in Little Jermyn Street, that had just been sacked by a band of black men. Were there any injuries? Yes, a man lay dead, though he had not, strictly speaking, been murdered. In the course of the robbery one of the household staff had been taken by an attack of some sort — apoplexy or a sudden stoppage of the heart — and it had put him in such a state that he could not be revived.