Bruce Alexander - The Color of Death

She, for her part, returned the smile. There followed an awkward pause. “I must be going. I’ve an appointment with my new employer,” said she, starting forward, expecting me to step aside.

I held my ground and would not let her round me. “Where may we reach you, Mistress Pinkham? Here? Or perhaps at your new place of employment? We must have that talk, I fear.”

“Well …” She looked left and right, obviously eager to be gone.

“I could meet with you here, or perhaps at your new employer’s. Who is the new master, by the bye?”

“Uh … it ain’t certain yet that I got employment.”

“I’m sorry. I must have misunderstood,” said I. “But where would that be? Where will you be employed — If you are employed?”

She sighed. “Bloomsbury Square.”

“And your employer will be …? “

“Lord Mansfield.”

“Thank you. I shall be some time here, and I expect that you will be back here long before dinnertime. We shall have our talk when you return.”

She looked at me rather queerly then, as she might if I were a rabbit blocking her path and snarling menacingly when she sought to pass. I, however, made no further move to block her way. I stepped aside and allowed her by; more, I even offered a slight bow as she passed.

Once inside the house, I closed the heavy door after myself. Standing there in the hall, I felt quite like an intruder. I was not there by invitation, nor would I be entirely welcome if my purpose were known. Still, I had a task to perform, and fool’s errand or no, perform it I would as well as I could.

I was near enough to the closed door of the classroom so that I could hear Mr. Burnham’s voice intoning some lesson in geography to Bun-kins. (Where was Van Diemen’s Land? I had no idea.) I would not, could not, interrupt them. It would be best for me to go direct to Mr. Bilbo, in order to inform him of my presence in his house, and state bluntly just why I had come. It would not do to go tiptoeing about the house, asking questions behind his back. Thus, having made a firm decision, I set off down the long hall to look for Mr. Bilbo where he most likely would be found.

What had been the library in Lord Goodhope’s day was now Black Jack Bilbo’s study. Because he had been a seafaring man, the place was handsomely decorated with seascapes, paintings of ships in harbor, and pictures of exotic locations. In one corner was a maritime compass, and standing beneath the room’s high windows stood a ship’s helm. There were maps on the walls, and all manner of keepsakes — pistols, shells, arrowheads — scattered on shelves that had previously contained Lord Goodhope’s books. If Sir John’s retreat between the bedrooms was a bit small to be called a study, then Mr. Bilbo’s was a bit too large. Yet that fitted the man well. He was in every way a large figure — in every way, that is, except measureable height. Though not a tall man, he was deep-chested and great-bellied; each of his thighs would have matched the size of an ordinary man’s waist; his beard was big and black; and his heart was as large as that of any man in London.

I had but to knock upon the door frame and stick my head within to be waved forward.

“Jeremy, me boy, come in, won’t you?”

I came inside and took the chair opposite his desk, which he pointed to rather grandly (he was also fond of large gestures).

“Always happy to see you,” said he to me, “though I can’t say that this visit is entirely unexpected.”

“Mr. Burnham told you what came to pass during his interview with Sir John.”

“He did. He told me all about it — or as nearly all as he knew.”

“How that huge fellow marched right in and pointed him out as the leader of the band of robbers?”

“Trezavant is his name, I understand.”

“The coroner of Westminster.”

“Ah!” said Mr. Bilbo, rolling his eyes at the information I had given. “That j why Sir John dared not send him packing.”

“Yes, oh yes,” said I. “Mr. Trezavant is a friend of the Prime Minister’s and was appointed to his position by the Lord Chief Justice.”

“Ah, politics.” He shook his head in dismay. “I understand he’s a near neighbor of ours.”

“That’s right — on Little Jermyn Street.”

“Mr. Burnham suspects you of taking him down that particular street so that fellow Trezavant might get a good look at him and make certain identification.”

I jumped indignantly to my feet. “Why, that’s not true!” My voice was loud, certainly, but under control. “That was pure happenstance. I would never do such a thing, nor would Sir John ever ask me to.”

“That’s what I told him. Sit down, Jeremy. I have a point to make.”

I did as he said. He waited to speak until I was once more situated across the desk from him. He then did lean across it, his big hands clasped before him, his dark eyes staring into mine.

“I told Mr. Burnham that I had known the both of you, Sir John and you, Jeremy, long and well enough to be certain that you would not play such low tricks as he describes. And I tell you now, lad, that I’ve known Mr. Burnham long and well enough to be sure that he would not commit theft and murder, as this man Trezavant says he has. When you do truly know a man, in the way I’ve known him and you and Sir John, then you know what they’re capable of and what they’re not. Black man or white man, I’d take his word for it. But of course if it’s Mr. Burnham’s word against the coroner of Westminster, then that complicates things considerably.”

“There is another complication, Mr. Bilbo.”

“And what is that, lad?”

“Neither Sir John nor I believe that Mr. Burnham is guilty, as Mr. Trezavant charges. Yet, Sir John — and I too, I must confess — does not believe that he spent his time quietly at home last evening, as he says he did. That is why Sir John sent me here to attempt to confirm his story from the comments and testimony of those who were here at the time.”

“To confirm it or put the lie to it?”

“However it turns out, I suppose.” I hesitated at that point, but then decided to be altogether frank with Mr. Bilbo. “Sir John expects that I shall be lied to, but he says that even the lies may be of some value, for they may lead us to the truth. I have yet to divine how this may be so.”

“He’s a clever one, ain’t he? Only he could devise a way how lies would lead to the truth.” He laughed at that, clapped his hands, and laughed some more. Then the laughter suddenly stopped. “But let me tell you, Jeremy,” said he, “Sir John was dead right about one thing, and that’s that you’ll be lied to. In fact, I’ll tell you now that I stayed less than an hour at my gaming club, and all the time I was here — that is, up to about 10:30 — Mr. Burnham was also here, and I’m absolutely sure of it.”

“Is that the truth, Mr. Bilbo?”

“I’m willing to swear to it, Jeremy.”

And that was not at all, in this instance, the same as telling the truth.

“It would be my word against Mr. Trezavant’s, and though I’m a gambler, there’s many a duke and earl willing to swear that I run the finest and most honest gaming club in all London. They wouldn’t keep coming to me if it were not so.”

With a nod of his head, he indicated that there was nothing more to say.

I rose from my chair. “Then I have your permission to talk to all who were about your residence last night?”

“Of course,” said he. “You never need my permission to come into this house and talk with anyone.”

“Thank you, sir,” said I.

Then did I turn and walk the length of the study. Only at the door did I pause and turn back to Mr. Bilbo.

“Sir,” said I, “on the way in I happened to meet a Mistress Pinkham whom I had earlier met at Lord Lilley’s. Do you know much about her?”