Bruce Alexander - The Color of Death

“Jeremy!” he called, silencing the buzz of the spectators. “Come forward to me here.”

I did as he directed, squeezing between Mr. Mossman — the porter — and a large woman who must have been the cook. I knelt across from Mr. Donnelly and looked down at the butler, not quite knowing what to expect.

“This man is alive,” said Mr. Donnelly to me.

He certainly did not appear to be. His eyes were still shut and the corners of his mouth were pulled back in the same grimace I had seen before. In fact, in every particular he appeared just as he had earlier.

“I know he does not seem so, but you must take my word for it. I’ve held a looking glass to his mouth, and each time I’ve done so, it’s been clouded.”

“Not a heart stoppage then?”

“No, no, apoplexy rather. I must get him to St. Bartholomew’s. Now, I have just learned that the Trezavant’s coach and four is at their country home in Sussex. Could you go quickly to the Bilbo residence and ask the loan of their coach and team, driver and all? Explain the situation and put it to them that it would be a great favor to Sir John.”

“They will not hesitate, I’m sure.”

“Then go swiftly,” said the surgeon.

“Like the wind,” said I, jumping to my feet. Then I pushed my way to the door, and a moment later I was in Little Jermyn Street, running for St. James.

Indeed they did not hesitate at the Bilbo house. Mr. Burnham answered my knock on the door again and, as he had before, looked as if he had just returned from a long outing. He brought me inside and to the coachmen who were witting about in the kitchen, drinking tea. I made my appeal to them, and the driver rose, declaring that they had over an hour before they were to collect Mr. Bilbo. “Why not do a good turn for some good soul?”

“The horses need a proper run, anyways,” said the footman.

And so, reader, the horses had their run. At a gallop, they delivered poor Arthur to the hospital, as Mr. Donnelly and I held on to him, steadying him as the coach rocked back and forth on the cobblestones.

Mr. Donnelly remained at St. Bartholomew’s in order to discuss what might be done for the patient in the way of treatment (apparently very little). But I was whisked off to Bow Street, riding atop the coach by invitation, holding on for dear life yet enjoying the journey far more than earlier.

Next morning, having eaten my own breakfast, I took the tray Annie had prepared for Sir John up to his bedroom. I thought to wake him with a cup of hot tea, but when I entered the room, I found him awake and sitting up in bed. How long had he been so?

“Ah,” said he as I crossed the threshold, “Jeremy, is it? Come in, come in. I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Oh? How long have you been awake?”

“I’ve no idea, really. But I understand from Kate that there was another robbery last night of the kind that took place at Lord Lilley’s, and that you answered her call and went out in my place.”

“That’s correct, sir.” Setting down the tray before him, I busied myself pouring the cup full of tea from the small clay pot that Annie had supplied. I put it in his hands and waited as he sipped from it. Then I found for him an empty spot on the tray that he might set the cup down.

“I wish I had been there,” said he, “for as you know, there is much to be learned at the scene of the crime when memories are fresh. Nevertheless, I trust you, and you have otherwise been proceeding with the investigation, have you not?”

“I have, sir. If you wish me to tell you how it progresses — ”

“No, no,” said he, waving me to silence, “report only when you are ready. I do, however, need a few details regarding last night’s robbery. First of all, who was it that was robbed?”

“The home of Mr. Thomas Trezavant.”

“The coroner? Oh, dear God. I’ll be hearing much about this, I’m sure. Was he present? Did he meet the robbers?”

“Yes sir, he met them and said they were cruel black buggers, which indicated to me that he had been tortured in some way. I saw no evidence of this, however, and I must say he was quite drunk when he said it.”

“He was, was he? To what purpose did they torture him — if indeed he was tortured?”

“Probably to force him to reveal where his wife’s jewels were hidden.”

“She was not present?”

“No, Sir John, she had left much earlier after a considerable row, and she took the jewels with her that Mr. Trezavant might not sell or pawn them.”

“She — whatl Jeremy, this seems a bit more complicated then I had supposed. I think you had better tell it to me right from the beginning.

Leave nothing out. Let me be the judge of what details may be dispensed with.”

And that was indeed what I did. It took the better part of an hour to tell the story complete, and even then I omitted the altercation between Mr. Patley and me. During a good bit of the time, Sir John ate happily away at his breakfast, munching his bread and butter and crunching his bacon. Breakfast aside, he gave me his full attention.

When I had concluded, he nodded but said not a word for some time. He seemed to be considering all that I had told him. At last he spoke forth: “And so to sum up, Jeremy, the assault upon the Trezavant residence was quite like the one upon Lord Lilley’s, except that a woman pled that the door be opened, rather than the male who, a couple of days before, described the terrible carriage wreck in St. James Street.”

“That would seem to be so, sir.”

“Yet you only managed to talk with three at the house: the porter, who had been there when the robbers battered their way inside; the upstairs maid, who told you tales of the connubial difficulties of her master and mistress; and finally, Mr. Trezavant himself, who could tell you little because of his drunken state. Am I correct?”

When it was put thus, I had to admit that it sounded rather like I had wasted my time there. I hadn’t felt so at the time. “Well, Sir John, I thought it significant that Mistress Crocker gave it as her opinion that at least one of the Africans was not truly what he seemed to be. In a way, I thought that the most important matter to come out of my interrogations. You yourself asked those you talked to at the Lilley residence if the robbers seemed truly to be what they seemed.”

“And all of them,” said Sir John, “agreed that the black men did indeed seem to be black. Only she — your Mistress Crocker — gave it as her opinion that one of them was not. And after all, Jeremy, it was only an opinion”

“True enough,” said I, “but all those who agreed that the robbers were indeed black were likewise giving that only as their opinion.”

“Hmmm.” The expression which appeared on Sir John’s face was one of exasperation. “I fear that this discussion could be carried on ad infinitum, and there is really no need to prolong it since there is no way to prove one of us right and the other wrong. But I have an idea.” And there, reader, he halted, somehow giving the impression that he believed that having said this much he had said enough.

I sighed. “And what is the idea, Sir John?”

“I shall consult with Mr. Burnham.”

His reply puzzled me somewhat. “I don’t quite follow, sir,” I confessed.

“Why, it’s simple enough. Why are we at such a disadvantage — not to say a loss — with this case?” It was merely a rhetorical question. He plunged on: “Because, Jeremy lad, we know next to nothing about the black population of our city. We know not their number, nor their customs and habits, nor their tendencies toward criminality — as I said, we know next to nothing. Yet we do know one who is a member of that group by virtue of the color of his skin. That one, of course, is Robert Burnham, teacher to your friend Bunkins, and to our own Annie. I should like you to go to Mr. Burnham this morning and invite him here. Persuade him to come to us for a visit.”