Bruce Alexander - The Color of Death

“No, I didn’t,” said she rather coldly. “If I had, I should only have had to go back and retrieve it. And I have no intention of going down there ever again. Certainly not with you.” She ended her speech with a sniff.

“Well and good,” said I. “But let me see that file on John Abernathy, will you?”

Without a word, she handed over the thick folder. I had no difficulty finding the Abernathy file, and I knew that what I wished to know would be on the very last page of the many which made up his file. There it was: “The prisoner, John Abernathy, was sentenced by Justice Francis Seward to transportation to the colony of Jamaica, where he would be sold to labor for the term of his natural life. He was sent out in chains on the HMS Avenger on October n, 1760.” So it was. Maude Bleeker’s Johnny Skylark was not hanged: The possibility did exist that she had seen him, just as she claimed.

“Take this, the whole folder, and present it to Sir John,” I said to her. “He may want you to read it to him — or perhaps not. In any case, tell him I wished you to read to him the note on sentencing on the last page of the file.”

She was suddenly curious. “Well, all right, but what about you? Where will you be?”

“At St. Bartholomew’s Hospital,” said I. “I must visit a sick friend.”

That sick friend, of course, was Arthur Robb. I hiked across London town to see him, weighted down somewhat by the two pistols that I carried in my coat pockets. I had requested them from Mr. Baker, the armorer and night jailer. When he heard where I was going, he thought it quite wise for me to go armed and otherwise prepared for trouble.

The part of the city in which St. Bartholomew’s was located was not so much dangerous as it was dark and deserted at this time of night. It stood hard by Smithfield. The market would be full of customers — and most active — in a few hours’ time; but just now it was empty of all but stock to be slaughtered. I should have to choose my route to St. Bart’s carefully, taking the wider, better-lit streets and avoiding the narrow, dark streets which surrounded the hospital in such plenty.

Most of the above I have paraphrased from what I remember of the advice Mr. Baker had given me as he checked over the two weapons and loaded them.

“Are you sure you don’t want them in holsters on a belt, the way you usually wear them?” he asked.

“No, I’ll be going into the hospital proper, and I daresay they wouldn’t want me walking amongst their patients with pistols in plain view.”

“That makes good sense.”

I fell silent for a moment as I considered whether I should bring the next matter up for discussion. And though I hesitated, curiosity won out.

“Mr. Baker, have you any idea who might have kicked the door shut and locked us in the cellar?”

“Well ‘tweren’t me.” He was very emphatic.

“Oh, I know that. That’s why I’m asking you.”

He looked me full in the face, scratched his head, and grimaced in thought.

“Well now, let me see. I didn’t know you were down there, you two, so you must’ve gone down at the end of Fuller’s watch.”

“I suppose we did.” Now there was a thought, for after all, I did not get along well with Mr. Fuller and had not for some time.

“Was anyone else around?”

“Oh, let me think. Yes, Bailey and Perkins got called up to talk with Sir John. They didn’t stay long. That new fellow — what’s his name? Pat-something.”

“Patley,” said I.

“That’s it, Patley. He waited down here and left with the other two. But truth to tell, Jeremy, I don’t know why you’re letting this bother you at all. Didn’t hurt anyone. ‘Twasn’t much more than a prank, was it?”

“No, I suppose not. I’ll put it behind me.”

“It’s best you do.”

I was, however, not as good as my word. I worried away at the matter for over half my journey to St. Bart’s. Mr. Baker was right, of course. It was hardly more than a prank, and a mean-spirited one at that. And it was true, as well, that Mr. Fuller delighted in such tricks; he was notorious for the indignities, large and small, that he forced upon prisoners. Nevertheless, Constable Patley seemed a likelier candidate — though I could not specifically say why that should be. Was it simply because he had been a soldier, and the “prank” seemed to me to be the sort of jest that might enliven boring evenings in the barracks room? Or was it something deeper? It was true, I admitted, that I had acted rather arrogantly toward him on our march to the Trezavant residence — though not altogether without reason. Was this simply his way of getting back at me? Or did my suspicion go deeper still?

I gave all this greater thought than it deserved; mulling it about in my mind; posing Mr. Fuller against Mr. Patley; attempting to articulate to myself the basis of my uneasiness around Mr. Patley, the vague hostility that I felt toward him — to no avail.

At last, finding no answer in what, after all, was mere speculation, I dropped the matter and urged myself to think about something else — anything else. Then did I turn past Old Bailey and start up Gilt Spur Street — not within sight (and smell) of Smithfield yard. And there, quite unbidden, Clarissa Roundtree popped into mind. What a strange one she was! More often than not, she was bold as brass — just as she had been with Samuel Johnson, and as she so often was evenings at table. She seemed to wish all to believe her as capable as any man. Yet would a man scream, and clasp me to him, as she had when the candles were blown out and a rat began scurrying nearby? Indeed, I think not. And what, after all, could she have meant by that sly look that she gave me, and her own comment upon Mr. Baker’s comment? What, I asked myself, was she thinking of? Well, that was quite enough about Mistress Roundtree, was it not?

I put her out of my mind, and there she stayed for a minute or two — until (again, quite unbidden) I happened to remember how she had felt when she had flown into my arms there in the darkened cellar. As I may have observed elsewhere, she was rather tall for her age and much better, well, better … developed than she had been when she first took her place in the household a year past. The point is, she fitted me rather well for one her age. But was I even sure of her age? I had thought her about twelve when first I saw her; that would make her thirteen, would it not? Perhaps she was older than that. She certainly/^ older.

Thus, with such foolish thoughts as this circling through my brain, I arrived at St. Bartholomew s Hospital, oldest and largest in London. I chastised myself for not thinking more seriously while on this most solemn occasion. Arthur’s life would soon end — Mr. Donnelly had attested to that — and I surely owed him more decorous notions than those I had just had regarding Clarissa. Perhaps he would wish me to pray with him — but what prayers did I know? What could I say in comfort to him?

I passed through the great stone gate and glimpsed above it the statue of King Henry VIII as I went under it. Then did I go straight to the office in which Mr. Donnelly had signed the papers of admission as I and the footman held Arthur between us, doing what we could to make him tolerably comfortable. I rapped hard upon the door and waited but a moment until a loud voice came from beyond it.

“Who is there?”

“I am come from the Bow Street Court to question one of your patients.”

Apparently I had said the right thing, for a key turned the lock, and the door came open.

“You should of come earlier,” said the sharp-faced fellow who barred my way. “You need permission from a doctor to come in after six.”

“I have that.” I fetched out the letter given me by Mr. Donnelly and handed it over to him.