Bruce Alexander - The Color of Death

“Well,” said she, “ain’t you early!”

“Not really,” said I. “You said the afternoon. I believe it’s now just about noon.”

“So it’s very early afternoon.” She shrugged. “Well, right enough. I’m sure I don’t mind.”

As we set off together, I mentioned my plan: “If you’ve a mind, I thought we might go to the Globe and Anchor on the Strand. It’s a very respectable inn with an excellent eating place within. I thought you might care for coffee and cakes.”

“Ooh, coffee! It does make me tingle. But I’m for it so long as this place is truly respectable.”

“Oh, it is.”

“Right enough then. A girl can’t be seen comin’ out of a place that ain’t.”

“Oh, indeed. I quite understand.”

And thus, chatting away like a pair of happy magpies, we made our way to the Globe and Anchor. She was prettier than I remembered — or perhaps I should say, even prettier. I recalled the full lips, the tilted nose, the curls, and the blue eyes with accuracy. But memory had not done justice to the rest of her — that is to say, to that part below her pretty neck. In particular was I struck by her shapely and abundant bosom. It was quite developed for one of her youth; as I judged her, she could not have been more than a year my senior. I was quite gratified when, somewhere along Pall Mall, she did slip her arm tight into mine in such a way so that my elbow was cushioned quite generously by her. I recall that we were talking of my last, recent visit to the Trezavant residence.

“I was quite disappointed,” said she, “when I learned you’d come by and not searched me out.”

“Ah well,” said I, “I was not there long. I was on my way to a house nearby.”

“But you were there long enough to talk to Cook.”

“Oh, so I was.”

“What in the world would she have to say? She’s such a stout old cow — eats too much of her own cooking, she does.”

“What did she have to say? Oh, nothing much, really. For the most part, she told me what you had already said.”

“What was that?” she inquired with surprising sharpness.

“It had to do with Mr. and Mrs. Trezavant, their rows, and all the rest. It seems that she grew up in the house that your Mrs. T. did, and wanted me to know all about her and her father and this matter of money between her and Mr. Trezavant.”

“Oh, well, I told you all about that,” said she rather airily.

“That’s as I said.”

“Yes, so you did. Sorry.”

(I realize, reader, that what I told Crocker would be understood as a lie by most. Nevertheless, since I had cautioned Maude Bleeker against telling others her tale of Johnny Skylark, it seemed that the least I could do was follow the advice I myself had given her.)

“And how are your inquiries goin’? Do you expect you’ll catch the robbers?”

“Perhaps eventually,” said I. “At this point, however, we’ve not got much information — not near enough, anyway.”

“Mores the pity/’ said she.

“But for the time being, I should like to put those matters out of my mind and give my full attention to you — for you deserve it.”

“La, sir, you flatter me so! You’re such a gallant!”

(I could hardly believe that I should mouth such inanities, reader, but this surely was what Sir John meant by flirting — for it did, after all, seem to be working upon her.)

We walked on. I could not but notice how those whom we passed on Pall Mall walk looked upon us. We must have made a handsome couple, I in my bottle green coat and she — well, I have done my best to describe her. She herself seemed aware of the impression she made. She seemed to walk even more confidently. Her pace picked up as she listened to further extravagancies from me; remembering such now causes me such embarrassment that I prefer to say nothing more of them.

So came we, in any case, to the Globe and Anchor. It was, and no doubt still is, the finest hostelry on the Strand, and its dining room was renowned all over London. During the day — and on Sunday in particular — those from the better parts of Westminster could visit the dining room in couples for coffee and cakes. Yet it was not so well-known then as to be overcrowded so early in the afternoon. We were welcomed and brought swiftly to a table private enough for confidential conversation, yet not so isolated that I might suspect that we had been tucked away out of sight. No, we fitted in as well as any. The coffee and cakes were as good as could be gotten at Lloyd’s itself. Jenny Crocker seemed well-pleased by the place and my attentions. She admitted this was her first visit to the Globe and Anchor.

“No,” said she, “I never been here before. Though I passed it many times on errands and that. Do you come here often?”

“Well,” said I with a shrug, “not often perhaps, though I have been here before.” Which was not, strictly speaking, a lie.

In general, I seemed to be succeeding in convincing her that, in spite of my apparent youth, I was a proper gentleman, or as she might have it, a “gallant.” Playing that role, I ordered our refreshments and, when they came, listened as she cooed and giggled with excitement describing the effect of the coffee upon her; she showed her appreciation of the Globe and Anchor’s cakes by eating more of them in five minutes’ time than I could have done in an hour. The burden of maintaining our conversation was upon me. I might have continued bestowing praise upon her, yet in truth, I could think of no more to give. With her silently chewing, the moment seemed ripe for me to introduce the subject for which I had been preparing her. However, just as I was about to do so, she said something through her mouthful of cake, which I understood so ill that I asked her to repeat it.

“Do you — ” said she, then laboriously swallowed the last bit of cake in her mouth, “do you think you might sometime leave your line of work?”

The question took me so completely unaware that I burst out laughing. “Why? What’s wrong with the work I do?”

“Well, there’s ways of makin’ more money, ain’t there?”

“I suppose so.”

“You’re sort of a constable, right? Or kind of an assistant magistrate?”

“That’s right, but now that you mentioned it, I am studying to be a barrister. That may pay more, depending on how well I do.”

“But it’s still the law, ain’t it?”

“Certainly it is. What’s wrong with the law?”

“Oh, nothing, I suppose, though you’ll not get rich.”

She did then go into a sulk. She fell silent and thrust out her lower lip until she discovered how difficult it was to chew with a drooping lip. I decided that now was the time to bring up the matter I had been about to broach a few moments before, though I had not yet thought of the proper angle of approach. That being the case, I decided to meet it head-on.

“Arthur died last night,” said I.

Her response to the news was much stronger than I should ever have expected. Tears formed in the corners of her eyes. Her chin trembled. I whipped out my kerchief, which was fair unused and handed it to her. She dabbed and blew almost noiselessly into it.

“He was a dear man, old Arthur was.”

“I was with him at the time.”

“You was — er, were? Did he say anythin’ before he passed on?”

“Yes, he did,” said I. “He said your name.”

“My name?”

This time the tears did indeed fall; they simply brimmed over and coursed down her pretty cheeks in a great flood. She wiped at them but could do little to stanch their flow. Blowing her nose seemed to help. Indeed, she seemed to be gaining control of herself — that is, until I made a fundamental error.

“And when he said your name,” I added, “the pleasantest, happiest smile you could imagine appeared upon his face.”