Bruce Alexander - The Color of Death

“Oh, but Mr. Burnham, one last matter. I was about to pose a group of questions to you when we were interrupted so rudely.”

Stopping, turning, the tall Jamaican gave the magistrate his full attention. “So? What have you then, Sir John?”

“Are you acquainted with others of your color here in London?”

“I am. Though I have not sought them out, there are so many about that it was inevitable that I should meet a few. One or two of them I call friend and see from time to time.”

“How are they employed?”

“Most are in domestic service, though you may find them in many different trades and occupations.”

“Even thievery?”

“Perhaps,” said Mr. Burnham, “for with such a number of us in this city, there are bound to be a few lawbreakers among us.”

“Do you know of any who have that reputation?”

“No, not even those who are but rumored to have turned to villainy.

Let me say, Sir John, that it may well be that there are fewer Africans who have turned to crime than with other comparable groups.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

“Because, sir, if a black man commits an act of violence or a brazen theft, he will immediately be identified as a black man and be thus much easier to discover and arrest. Since this is no suppositional matter, and the particular Africans you have in mind are those who entered and robbed the homes of Lord Lilley and that man, Trezavant, then I would say that if they were truly men of color, I believe they would have been far better advised to disguise themselves in white-face.”

“Are you suggesting …?”

“I suggest nothing at all, Sir John. I merely offer an opinion.”

With that, Mr. Burnham turned once again and made for the door. He was through it, and down the hall in no time at all. We listened to his footsteps beat a quick rhythm to the door.

Then was he gone with the bang of that same door out into Bow Street.

“Shall I catch him up, Sir John?” I asked him. “I might have the opportunity to talk with Bunkins before their afternoon class begins.”

“No,” said he, “let him have time to talk with your friend, Bunkins, the coachmen, and anyone else he might get to lie for him.”

“Sir? I don’t quite understand.”

“He is not telling the truth. That much is plain. Yet it is often the case that we can only get to the truth by listening carefully to the lies that we are told.”

“In what particulars do you think that he is lying, sir?”

“Why, I mean with regard to where he was last night. Oh, yes, indeed. But that does not mean that I believe, along with Mr. Trezavant, that Mr. Burnham is the captain of that crew of robbers.”

“How is it that you came to those conclusions, Sir John?”

“Well, I fear it’s little more than a feeling on my part. But my feelings in these matters usually prove out. In fact, they always do.”

“Indeed,” said I, puffing up a bit, “I, too, had a feeling about Mr. Burnham. Twice, sir, on those occasions upon which I visited Mr. Bilbo’s residence following the robberies, Mr. Burnham answered the door, and I had the distinct feeling that he had just returned to the house. He was perspiring, and he seemed somewhat out of breath.”

“So you share the feeling that he spent those evenings away from home?”

I do, yes, sir.

“Do you then believe that Mr. Trezavant has him properly identified?” “

“Not at all, sir.”

“Good. Then we are in agreement. Go out and talk to them all. Listen to them carefully, and perhaps you can detect the holes in the tales that you are told; through them we may be able to wriggle our way to the truth.”

And so, having helped Sir John upstairs and into his bed, I set off upon a path that had become all too familiar to me over the past few days. I decided to alter it a bit, walking by way of the Hay Market and Piccadilly, and in this way I entered St. James Street from above. Had I not chosen to go by this roundabout route, I should not have come to the corner of St. James at Little Jermyn Street, where I encountered a familiar face and figure. It was none but John Mossman, the porter who had been present when the robbers made their spectacular entrance into the Trezavant house. He saw me, just as I saw him, and gave me a wave and a great “hallooo,” as he hurried to the place where I awaited him. It was a fortuitous meeting; he had news to impart — quite a lot of it, as it turned out.

“Fancy I should meet you here,” said he, upon arriving. “I was going on to Bow Street later today to seek you out.”

“Oh? Had you something to add to what you told me last night?”

“Not I, but another. The cook, an old girl named Maudie Bleeker, asked to see you, to give you a bit of information. It ain’t so easy for a cook to get away during the day, y’know, so I told her I’d go by the magistrate’s and put you on notice, so s you could come and see her.”

I gave a bit of thought to that. I was eager to talk with anyone who might add to the flimsy bits of information I had gathered last night; nevertheless, there was a difficulty.

“Mr. Mossman,” said I, “I should like nothing better than to talk with the lady, but truth to tell, I wish to avoid meeting your master because of a recent misunderstanding.”

“Ah,” said he, “well then you’re in luck, lad, for this very morning he went off to Sussex on the post coach.”

“But I saw him earlier boarding a hackney.”

“It was to take him to the post-coach house. Well I know it, for he asked me, would I go up there and have the coach come by here to pick him up. When I told him they wouldn’t do that, he was quite miffy, he was. That’s when he asked me to summon him a hackney coach that he might get to the coach house.”

“He was off to inform his wife of the robbery, I suppose.”

“Off to plead with her to come back, is more like it.” He grinned in open amusement at his master’s troubles. “I’m going now to haul back a grand vase of the kind his wife collects. It’s to take the place of the one the robbers stole.” He ended with a laugh.

“Well, since he is away, I will indeed visit Mistress Bleeker.”

“You do that,” said Mr. Mossman. “She’ll be glad to see you, and maybe what she’s got to tell will really help you some. She kept mum to me, wouldn’t say what it was.”

I thanked him and began moving a step or two down Little Jermyn Street, but he waved me back.

“One more thing,” said he. “What do you know of poor Arthur? Is he still with us?”

“Is he alive? Well, he was when last I saw him. All that can be done for him at St. Bart’s will be done.”

“Which ain’t much, I fear.”

“No, not much, according to Mr. Donnelly.”

“A great shame it is, for Arthur was a grand fellow. Never had a bad word for anybody. I don’t know what you 11 think of the new one.”

“New one? You mean he already has a replacement?”

“You might say so. A fellow come to the door this morning and said he’d heard of our misfortune, and could he see the master. He was already dressed up in butler’s livery and ready for work. I can’t say whether he has the position permanent or not.”

“No doubt that depends upon Arthur’s recovery. Hmmm,” said I, again imitating Sir John, “interesting, very interesting. Goodbye to you then, Mr. Mossman. I’m quite glad we met.”

We parted. I hurried on to the Trezavant residence, and as I went, I attempted to arrange my expectations in some pattern with what was already known. What would Maudie Bleeker have to say? Would it change much — or even possibly all? I promised myself that I would visit St. Bartholomew’s Hospital and see for myself how Arthur Robb was getting on; perhaps he might have regained the power of speech.