Bruce Alexander - The Color of Death

He squinted at me, probably seeking to fix my image in focus. “Who’reyou?” he asked at last.

“Jeremy Proctor, I came when — ”

“Oh yes, I … Now I reco’nize you. You … you … Sir John …”

“Yes sir, I am Sir John’s assistant.”

“Whar’s he?”

“I fear he was unable to come. He was wounded two nights past in the discharge of his duties. I have come in his place.”

“You?” He laughed. “You’re … you’re … but a …”

“A lad? Indeed that is true, sir, but I have been well-prepared by Sir John, and with your permission, I shall question you and members of your household staff to gather information for our investigation.”

“All I can tell you …” And at this point came the longest pause of all; near a minute passed by, perhaps more, as I waited. But eventually, my patience was rewarded. “All I can say is … they were a crew of cruel black buggers.”

“Yes sir,” said I. “I’ll make a note of that.” I could see there would be little of use that I would get from him. “But tell me, sir, is Mrs. Trezavant here? Would she be available for questioning?”

“My wife,” said he, “is where she blongs.” He seemed to feel that he had explained all.

“And where is that, sir?”

“In … at home.”

“Here?”

That seemed to anger him somewhat. He glared at me. Was he annoyed at me for asking, or at his wife for some unexplained offense?

“No … in Sussex, and she took the coach … the coach and four this morning.”

“Well, thank you, sir,” said I, backing toward the door, “I’ll not bother you further.”

“No bother … a pleasure … Always were a most p’lite lad. My best to Sir John…. Talk to anyone you like.”

I had reached the door. I felt behind my back for the doorknob. “Thank you, sir,” said I.

“I b’lieve I’ll just take a nap,” said he.

And so saying, folded his arms upon the desk and laid his great head, rather like a baby’s, down upon them.

Not waiting another moment, I made a quiet exit from the room and into the hall. And there, waiting for me, I found Mr. Benjamin Bailey who, as chief constable, directed the quotidian operations of the Bow Street Runners. Perhaps, to put it more clearly, he was regimental sergeant major to Sir John’s colonel. That arrangement seemed to satisfy him.

He walked me a bit down the empty hall to a point removed from Mr. Trezavant’s study so that we might talk more freely.

“Did you get anything from the coroner?” he asked.

“Nothing at all. He was quite besotten.”

“Drunk?”

“Completely.” I looked at him then, no doubt as hopefully as I felt. “What about the servants? Are there some worth talking to?”

“Oh, I suppose so,” said he. “Yes, you should talk to a few of them, but you’re going to find that this robbery was just like the last, except for one or two details.”

“And what are they?”

“You’ll find out, Jeremy. It wouldn’t do for me to draw conclusions for you.”

I sighed. It seemed that even my old friend, Mr. Bailey, intended to put me to the test. Ah well, I could hardly have expected it to be otherwise.

“Lead the way,” said I to him. “Find me a room, and bring them to me one at a time.” I meant that as a challenge.

The first particular in which this robbery differed from the earlier was in the crucial matter of gaining entrance. Mr. Collier, Lord Lilley’s former butler, had been duped into opening the door by an individual, evidently a black man, who told a sad tale of a terrible coach accident — and, what is more, told the tale in the tone and style of a native Londoner; there were no African inflections, not even the flat and now quite familiar accent of the North American colonies.

But there at the Trezavant residence, the butler could not tell us what was said, how it was said, nor for what reason it was decided to unlock and open the door. No, the butler could not tell us, but, as it happened, there was a witness to the event — and he could.

Mr. Bailey brought to me a John Mossman who, as it turned out, was the selfsame fellow who had admitted Mr. Patley and me to the Trezavant residence. He said that he and the butler, whose name was Arthur Robb, had been discussing in the hall what they might do with the master. There I halted him and asked what was meant by that. Why, after all, need anything be “done” with Mr. Trezavant?

“Well, the way of it was this, young sir,” said the porter. “The mas-ter’d been drinking through a good bit of the day, and quite steady after dinner. He had collapsed at his desk — quite unconscious he was. So Arthur and me, we was discussing just how we might get him up to his bed on the floor above, the master bein’ so big and all.”

He went on to explain that he was the only porter on the household staff and that those who might have helped — the footmen, the coach driver — had taken Mrs. Trezavant off to the country home in Sussex and would not return until the morrow. Arthur, he was just too old and frail to be of much use carrying a big load like that. All of which was quite interesting, and perhaps later would prove relevant, but I urged Mr. Mossman to get on with his story that I might learn how the robbers had gained entry.

“We was some distance back in the hall,” said he, “but we both heard the knockin’ on the door real plain. It was loud and you might say right frantic. So we hastened to the door, and Arthur calls out his ‘Who is there?’ — for it was well past the hour when you might open the door to anybody who knocks upon it. Then in response we heard this terrible wail, a cry for help it was, and the voice that did the crying was a woman’s voice.”

“A woman’s voice?” I exclaimed. “You’re sure of that?” “As sure as I’m here before you now. She said she’d been attacked in St. James Street, which is only a little ways over, and that she was bein’ chased. Oh, she sounded terrible frightened. Well, Arthur and me, we looked one at the other. All I could do was shrug, saying it was up to him, like. But Arthur, he didn’t give it but a moment’s thought. He was damned if he’d have some poor soul raped on our doorstep, so he starts pulling the bolts. And once that was done, he moved the door back — he couldn’t have had it open much more than an inch when it came open just like it’d been flung. It hit Arthur hard in the head, but I was behind him and managed to jump back out of the way. Then all of a sudden, there was four black men swarming through the open door with pistols and knives in their hands, and poor Arthur was reelin’ about holding his head where the door hit him. Before you knew it, he was clutchin’ at his heart and not his head, and, well, he just collapsed there by the door where you saw him. I couldn’t even ease his way down because by that time one of the blackies had a pistol stickin’ in my face.”

“Did you get a look at the woman who knocked upon the door?” He thought about that a moment, as if for the first time. “No, I can’t say I did. They hustled me downstairs to the kitchen far too quick.” “Could the woman’s voice you heard have been mimicked by a man?” “You mean makin’ his voice sound like a woman’s? No, I don’t think so. I don’t see how it could’ve been a man.”

Except for fixing the time of the assault (“Not long after ten,” said he, “but not yet half past the hour”), the porter and I had finished our business. Mr. Bailey brought into the room (barely a corner cupboard, really, beneath the stairs, and just off the kitchen) one of the maids, a sort of assistant to Mrs. Trezavant’s personal maid. She had more or less come forward as a volunteer, according to Mr. Bailey, for she wished to make a few things clear — or so she said.