Bruce Alexander - The Color of Death

“Well, you are all most fortunate,” said I, “for I am an assistant to Sir John Fielding, magistrate of the Bow Street Court, and if you are correct, then Sir John will certainly wish to question him. And so I shall take charge of him. You have my thanks for bringing him to me.”

“But-”

“And now,” said I, interrupting, refusing to be intimidated by this pompous individual (who was surely a butler), “I must now command all of you to leave, disperse, and be gone.” Is this what Sir John would have said? Something sterner perhaps in final rebuke: “You have together created a mob, and mob action will not be tolerated in the city of Westminster.” There, I thought, that should do it.

And it might have, for those who constituted the mob began talking uncertainly amongst themselves, one or two began drifting away, and their well-appointed spokesman seemed, for the moment at least, at a loss for words. But just at that decisive moment, a big woman pushed through from the rear to the very front. She was indeed large in every way — tall, broad, and weighty — and biggest of all was her mouth.

“What’s the matter with all of you?” she shouted out at her companions. “Are you goin’ta let this young pint of piss turn you round and send you back home? How do we know he’s from Bow Street, like he says he is? I daresay his intention may be to take this nigger round the corner and turn him loose with a pat on his black arse. No, by Gawd, we’ll make an example of that African like we started out to do. Follow me! He’ll not dare to shoot a woman.”

(Alas, reader, she had correctly perceived the limits of my ruthless intentions. Indeed, I would not, could not, shoot a woman. Perhaps I might shoot to wound a man — in fact, had done so — but I had never shot to kill anyone and dearly hoped I never would. As may have been plain to you, I was bluffing — playing brag with the mob.)

She turned back to me, anger and contempt writ upon her face. What could I do? Threaten her with an even graver warning? What could \do1

But as she started toward me, help came from a most unexpected source. Who should come bursting through the crowd of onlookers but Constable Patley? He ran forward, halting the woman, not so much in fear as in astonishment. Bending, he grabbed up the stick-club dropped by one of the two bold lads who had first challenged me. Without a word, he went directly to her and gave her a sharp thwack on her backside.

The audience on the far side of the street, gallants and their ladies, made great merriment of this, laughing lustily as they might at some jolly street fair.

“The lad is what he says he is,” said Mr. Patley, “and I am a Bow Street constable. If all of you do as he says and disperse, leaving this place as quick as ever you can, then you’ll have no more trouble from us. But if you stay, 111 knock you down one by one.” And then he spoke direct to the big woman whom he had insulted with his stick: “And you, you foul-mouthed slut, I’ll bring you in for inciting to riot. Have I made myself clear?”

There then issued from her a great stream of obscenity and profanity such as I had not heard in one dose in any of the lowest dives in Bedford Street. But reluctantly, grudgingly, she turned round, as did all the rest of the mob, and trailed out in the general direction of the square.

The audience did truly applaud, which amazed me, though it seemed altogether in keeping with the attitude of those pleasure-seekers from Pall Mall. Moreover, Mr. Patley bowed in response, which amazed me more.

“Jeremy,” came the voice behind me. “Could you let me out, please? I am quite squashed here between you and the iron fence.”

“Good God,” said I, stepping quickly away. “Frank! Do forgive me! I’d completely forgotten.”

“I rather thought you had,” said Frank somewhat dryly. “Must I now go with you to be questioned by Sir John?” He looked at me rather dubiously.

“Oh, perhaps it might be best, since that is what I told them. You should, in any case, give him your account of what happened — the mob chasing you and all. Credit Constable Patley for saving us both. I must thank him myself.”

Then did I look about me. The street had emptied quickly. There were but four or five scattered here and there, and Mr. Patley was not among them. He had simply disappeared — yet he could not have gone far. Where were we in St. James Street? The Bilbo house was not far, nor for that matter was Lord Lilley’s; but closer, and between the two, stood the Zondervan mansion. Could he have gone in there? Who might he know inside? Could I ask him? Would he tell me?

I sighed. “Well, come along, Frank. Mr. Johnson will be wondering what’s become of you.”

Though he had done with his Magistrate’s Court a couple of hours before, Sir John was still up and about when I arrived with Frank Barber at Number 4 Bow Street. For the most part, Frank had been rather quiet during our walk back; therefore was I mildly surprised when, upon entering the “backstage area” of the Bow Street Court (strongroom, clerk’s alcove, magistrate’s chambers, et cetera), he became of a sudden quite loquacious in Sir John’s presence. He did not wait for me to introduce him or present him, but rather went right to where the magistrate stood conversing with Mr. Marsden, and offered himself as an old friend.

“Sir John,” said he, “it is I, Francis Barber. We met on a number of occasions when I was much younger at the home of Mr. Johnson in Gough Square. That was before I was sent off for schooling, from which I have lately returned.”

He offered his hand to Sir John — nay, more than offered, for he thrust it at him, grasped the magistrate’s own, and shook it vigorously.

“Ah yes,” said Sir John, “I believe I recall you now. What brings you here, young man? Have you a letter for me from Mr. Johnson?”

“No sir, as it happens, I do not. Yet, curiously enough, it was in a way a letter from Mr. Johnson, one which I delivered to a house in St. James Square, that brings me to you now.”

Wherewith Frank Barber told his tale, much of which I heard for the first time. He had, it seemed, done no more than deliver the letter to a Sir Exlward Talcott, resident of the square, when a crowd gathered round him. Those in the crowd demanded to know what he did there, yet would not listen to his response. Instead they accused him of being one of that gang of robbers that had been raiding the grand houses thereabouts, and would not listen to his vigorous denials. They, it seemed, were household staff members in various residences around the square. As they pushed poor Frank about, threatening him, buffeting him, he saw that what had been a crowd was now a mob. They meant to harm him (he saw a horsewhip in the hands of one of them), perhaps kill him (another brandished a length of rope), and so, seeing an opportunity to break loose from them, he took it. He ran fast as ever he could, leading them once around the square and out of it, into St. James Street.

“And there,” said he, “I managed, with the help of your assistant Jeremy Proctor, to elude them completely.”

With that he concluded, quite astonishing me and frustrating me, as well. Was that all there was to it? Had I not stood off a dozen (fifteen? twenty?) with a single pistol? Had I not protected him with my very body? And what about Mr. Patley? Had he not demonstrated rare courage by intimidating the mob armed only with a stick? Had he not saved both Frank and me?

I opened my mouth, thinking to correct Frank’s version; then almost immediately I shut it. For as I looked at Frank and noted the innocent expression on his face, I realized that he truly believed that this was how it had happened: He had done all with but a bit of help from me. There was naught for me to say which would not sound self-serving. Even to describe Mr. Patley s part in it — his dramatic entrance, et cetera — required first a description of the calamitous situation in which I found myself. And so, reader, I said nothing.