Bruce Alexander - The Color of Death

“I shall try to keep that in mind, my Lady.”

Then did I glance in Clarissa’s direction, perhaps expecting, or at least hoping, for something like an apology from her, as well. Nothing was forthcoming, however.

“Then,” said I, “I shall join Sir John.”

And with a nod, I left them.

Of my report to Sir John, I have little to say. He listened carefully to what I had to tell him as he sat up in bed, hands folded across his middle. When I had done, he offered no interpretation of Arthur’s curious remarks, nor, having none, did I offer any ideas of my own. It was thus a rather brief interview. I stood up from the chair at his bedside and prepared to go.

“Now, as I recall,” said he, ” you had arranged to ask more questions of this young woman whom the butler mentioned. Is that correct?”

“It is, Sir John.”

“Well and good,” said he. “Get what you can from her. Use your manly charms, if you must.”

“Manly charm!” I repeated, laughing. “I hadn’t known that I had any.”

“Of course you do. Flirt with her — that sort of thing. Oh, and one more matter. Try to find out from her — or from anyone else in the Trezavant household — when the master will be returning from Sussex.”

I agreed to find out what I could and took my leave of him.

I include this account of my experience upon returning to Number 4 Bow Street for a selfish purpose. And that is, reader, to demonstrate how freely I was tossed about in my own household between ” you are but a lad still,” on the one hand, and “use your manly charms,” on the other. There could be little doubt that Sir John and Lady Katherine held distinctly different views of me — that is, of the degree of maturity which I had achieved; nor could there be any doubt that I much preferred Sir John’s to his wife’s. After all, I regarded myself as a man and saw no reason why the rest of the world should not.

I presented myself at the door of the Trezavant residence a bit earlier than Jenny Crocker might have expected — all part of my plan. This way I might see who it was had engaged her for the morning. I had shaved closely and carefully, cleaned my shoes properly, and worn my bottle-green coat, all of which I hoped would add to my manly charms.

Mr. Mossman, the porter, answered the door rather than Mr. Collier, and I thought that curious enough to comment upon it.

“Ah, well, he went off someplace, he did,” said Mossman. “Most of the staff has gone for the day or some part of it. The master was plannin’ to return tonight, or tomorrow noon at the latest — or so he said when he left. I guess they all decided they would get in their visit whilst he was away. Usually he keeps half-staff on Sundays.”

“So all of them went out, leaving you alone?”

“Me and cook is all that’s here.”

“Well,” I said with a proper long face, “I’ve bad news for you. Arthur died during the night.”

“Ah well,” said Mossman, “none of us expected he would last long, even in the hospital — maybe especially not there. St. Bart’s got a bad reputation, you know.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Few comes out alive.” He stared glumly down at his shoes. “Were you there with him when he passed on?”

“Well, I was, and I wasn’t,” said I. “The doctor who put him in the hospital told me to go if I wished to ask Arthur questions. I asked a few of him. But then, as I sat beside his bed and pondered his answers, sleep overcame me. I fear I slept through his last moments here on earth.”

“Ah, but at least he knew there was somebody cared enough to sit beside him in that darkest hour. That must have been a comfort.”

“Hmmm, well, perhaps.”

Oddly enough, Mr. Mossman and I had been strolling the long hall as we talked. I thought perhaps he was leading me to the back stairs — but no. Once we reached them, he turned me about, and we proceeded together along the way we had come.

“Arthur mentioned something rather odd,” I said. “He was not fully conscious, and so it may not have meant anything at all, but I wanted to ask you, was he ever in the army? “

He stopped for just a moment, turned, and looked at me rather oddly. “Why, indeed he was. What was it he said?”

Not wishing to be too explicit, “The name of a particular regiment came up, popped out of his mouth, as it were.”

“Was it the King’s Carabineers?”

“Why, so it was,” said I. “What do you know of it?”

“That was his old regiment. You might not’ve thought it of him — old and frail-looking as he was — but he soldiered a good long while back in the forties. He was first in Europe, France, and that, and then up against the Pretender.”

“And all of it with the King’s Carabineers?”

“That’s right. It was a mounted regiment, you know.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, and old Arthur, he could still sit a horse. I remember him showing off one morning down at the great house in Sussex. We was all amazed.”

“Did he often see his former mates — go out and drink with them, et cetera?”

“No,” said Mossman a bit regretfully, “when you work on household staff as we do, you’re not really free to do much of that. But each year they had a regimental reunion. He wouldn’t’ve missed that for any price.”

“So he did keep in contact with some?”

“Must have.”

I thought upon that until we had reached the door to the street whence we had started. Before he could turn me round and start back down the hall again, I planted my foot and put a hand upon the doorknob.

“I’ll trust you to pass the word on Arthur to Mistress Bleeker and the rest of the staff,” said I to him.

“Oh, I will,” he promised. “You can be certain of it. They’ll be sad to hear he’s gone, but they’d all want to know.”

I made to open the door, but it was much heavier than I had anticipated; I tugged without result.

“Here, let me do that,” said Mr. Mossman, easing me gently to one side. “There’s a bit of a trick to it.”

He gave the knob a great twist, pushed the door out, and only then pulled it back. It slid open quite easily.

“Oh, by the bye,” said I, “is Crocker about? I’ve a question or two for her.”

He looked at me then in mild surprise. “No, she went out for a stroll with a fella, but I thought you knew that.”

“You did? Why?”

“Why, because he’s one of yours.”

“One of mine? I don’t understand.” He did truly have me puzzled.

“No, no,” said he, “I meant that he was a constable. In fact, he’s the one arrived with you the night of the robbery.”

Constable Patley, of course! He kept turning up, didn’t he? What had he to do with Jenny Crocker? “Ah, well,” said I, making an effort not to divulge the surprise I felt through the expression on my face, “he does not tell all.”

“Few do,” said the porter, ever so philosophically.

“When did they leave?” I asked.

“Oh, hours ago.”

“In that case, they should be back soon. I believe I shall wait in front for their return.”

“You can wait here in the sitting room, if you’ve a mind to.”

“No, I think not,” said I, “for I’ve a message for the constable. But thanks to you anyway.”

With that I departed, though I walked no farther than the last of the three steps that led from the door to the walkway. And there I remained, waiting. In spite of what I had said about having a message to deliver to Mr. Patley, I had no wish to engage him in talk. I simply wanted to be visibly there so that I might embarrass him — if, indeed, that were possible.

Indeed, I had not long to wait. Nevertheless, if I truly hoped to inflict upon Patley some degree of chagrin, I was to be disappointed, for when Crocker came, she came alone. As I watched her approach, moving along at a swift pace and looking the very picture of amused contentment, I realized there would be no confrontation, and I confess that I felt some degree of relief at that. I stepped out to meet her. She looked up in surprise.