Bruce Alexander - The Color of Death

“I doubt he will come until he has finished his morning reading session with his two scholars,” said I. “Shall I bring him up here to your bedroom?”

“Oh, by no means. I’m feeling stronger today. I shall remain downstairs after my court session and simply wait for him in my chambers and receive him there. That would be far more proper, don’t you think? He, as I recall, is one who likes to see the proprieties given strict observance.”

And so it was that I set out for Black Jack Bilbo’s residence at mid-morning, after having washed up and scrubbed down our quarters above the stairs. My last task of the morning was to give Sir John any assistance he might require in dressing (which was not much); when he retired at night, his clothes for the next day were laid out in strict order by Lady Fielding so that he might dress himself in the morning. Occasionally his shirt or his waistcoat was buttoned crooked or his hose needed hitching. When I was not about to provide these finishing touches, Mr. Marsden attended to them. Once a few adjustments had been made, Sir John and I descended the stairs together. I left him with his clerk as they began their daily discussion of the court docket.

There was yet time enough left so that there was no need to hurry to St. James Street, and indeed I did not hurry. The great early morning rush of workers to their work had ended some time before. And while one could hardly say that the streets were empty of pedestrians (the streets of London were never empty), it was nevertheless possible to amble the distance without fear of being buffeted and bumped from either side, or having one’s heels trod upon.

My pace had slowed because I was deep in thought. I frowned and fretted as I went, trying to think of what step might next be taken in the investigation. While I was not yet at an impasse, it seemed to me I was somewhat limited. I must wait until Mr. Martinez and Mr. Humber had information for me — if indeed they would have information to give. I had, however, done nothing to explore one avenue of investigation: I saw that I must learn something of Walter Travis, the porter who had been murdered during the raid upon the Lilley residence. But what could be learned — and how? I gave some thought to that, and promised myself to give it more once things had quietened down a bit — but would they ever? I began to appreciate the utility of those long hours that Sir John spent alone and in the dark in that little room off his bedroom which he called his study. There, I realized, was where he conducted his investigations; that was where he fit the pieces of the puzzle together.

Thus did my thoughts run as I made my way to the Bilbo residence. There were shops at one end of St. James Street — and beyond them the grand houses, of which Black Jack’s was indeed one of the grandest. It was, however, not the best kept, for as he did not employ a butler, neither did he keep a gardener on his household staff. He thought both unnecessary. A fellow who worked in St. James Park came by from time to time to trim the bushes and do what needed to be done in the back garden. Mr. Bilbo dispensed with a butler easily enough by ruling that anyone in the house who heard a knock upon the street door was obliged to answer it.

As it happened, my good friend Jimmie Bunkins was nearest when I rapped hard upon the door with the brass clapper. It was his face that appeared as the heavy door swung open. That meant that class was done for the morning, which in turn justified the timing of my visit.

“Ah, chum,” said he, “shove your trunk inside. Come! Come! Come! Let me be the first to ask ye. How’s your cove fare?”

“Sir John? Oh, he’s right as rain. Moves his smiter well now.”

(Be not intimidated, reader, for if some of the words recalled and quoted above seem unfamiliar, they are no more than bits and pieces of “flash,” the cant of the London underworld. Indeed, Bunkins had been a member in good standing of Covent Garden’s great legion of thieves until Mr. Bilbo took him in and bettered his lot. Bunkins simply invited me in and inquired after Sir John’s condition. I replied that he was doing well and could move his arm without difficulty now.)

Then did I hear the harpsichord jangling from the drawing room, and a moment later Annie’s voice joining in. It was another Handel oratorio. She had been humming something like it around the house for the past few days. Now, however, with Mr. Burnham’s accompaniment and her voice at full, I was given some true idea of the sound of the anthem as it would be heard with full chorus at the Academy of Ancient Music. I was most favorably impressed.

“Keeps gettin’ better, don’t she?” said Bunkins with an approving nod. “That moll can really lip a chaunt.”

“She can,” I agreed. “Will they be much longer?”

“Don’t think so. They been at it a while already.”

“Well then,” said I, “I’ve something to jaw with you proper.”

“And what might that be, chum?”

“I need to know if in those days when you were a scamp you came across a fellow named Walter Travis.”

Bunkins frowned a moment in thought, then gave a firm shake of his head. “No, I can’t say as I did.”

“That might not be his true name.”

“Well, then it could be just any cod.”

“I know, but listen. He was about ten years older than you and me, a big man, six feet or more, and he was on the scamp himself. He’d put in a spell at Newgate.”

“Well, that brings it down to a few hundred.”

“All right, this may help. Travis came out of the clink and went into service.”

“You mean like a butler?”

“Not so grand as that — just a porter — but at a big house belonging to a lord, no less.”

“Would this be the cod who got himself killed at Lord Lilley’s the other night?”

“The very same.”

Bunkins scratched his jaw. “Now you’ve given me something to work with,” said he. “A scamp workin’ for a duke — I’d say that’s rare. That’ll give me something to go to my old partners in crime and jaw about — sort of thing they’d remember. With him dead and gone, they’d have no reason to keep a dubber mum. What do you want to know about him?”

“Well, his proper name, for one thing, and if he was in on the sacking of the duke’s down the street. And if you can get that, maybe you can also get the names of those who did the sacking.”

“Oh, I doubt I can get their names. I don’t know no snitches, and if I did, I got nothing to trade, if you follow me.”

“Yes, I follow. If you can get anything at all I’ll be grateful.”

And there we left it. No further discussion of Walter Travis (whatever his true identity) was needful. And besides, the sound of the harpsichord had ceased, and Annie’s sweet voice had stilled. There was naught but the murmur of voices in conversation coming from the room down the hall.

“They’re done,” said Bunkins. “Want to take Annie back with you?”

“Probably,” said I, “if she wishes to come. But I’ve a message from Sir John for Mr. Burnham.”

“Come along then, chum. No time to deliver it like the present.”

Following Bunkins down the hall, I sought the proper words to use to present Sir John’s invitation. I realized that if I were to offer it in a casual manner, he might choose to come at his leisure — hours later, a day later — or, knowing Mr. Burnham, perhaps not at all. On the other hand, if I put the matter to him with too great a sense of urgency, he might shy away, thinking perhaps that Sir John held him suspect as one of the robbery crew. Mr. Martinez, whom Sir John has known for years, leaped to a similar conclusion, and probably because of the crude manner in which I put the matter to him. You must be discreet, I instructed myself, yet not too discreet — direct but not blunt.