Bruce Alexander - The Color of Death

“Jeremy,” said he, “what precisely was it that the stable boy told you with regard to the frequency of these trips? Was it every Sunday that Mr. Burnham rode out to this secret destination?”

I thought back that I might be precise in my response. “Wliat he said, sir, was two or three times a week, four at the most, but always on Sunday.”

“Hmmm,” said Sir John, giving the matter some consideration, “that is rather a lot, isn’t it? Did he say how long this had been going on?”

“Not in so many words, no, but the implication seemed to be that it was quite a long time — months, I should think. After all, when you say ‘always on Sunday’…”

“Well, yes, I see your point.” He quietened down for a good long time, giving himself completely to thought. At last, he said, “A woman! That is it. That must be it. He is paying court to a woman some distance away. But how can we know who she is unless he tells us?”

We pondered that between us. Perhaps Mr. Fuller may even have given it a thought or two, but in the end there was naught said and no suggestion made. Sir John was, I believe, ready to adjourn our meeting when I decided to seek from him the answer to the question that had earlier troubled me.

“Sir,” said I, “can you tell me, what is the legal status of Mr. Burnham? Is he a prisoner? Is he here for questioning?”

He smiled rather crookedly at that. “Well you might wonder, Jeremy. You’ll find his status defined in no law book I know of. Let me say that as it stands now, there are but two matters against him. The first is the accusation made by Mr. Trezavant. Ordinarily, it would not in itself be sufficient to send him to the gallows, for we know that at the time he was visited by the robbers, the man was drunk. Nevertheless, Mr. Trezavant is the coroner of the city of Westminster, and his testimony as a witness cannot simply be dismissed; it is not good for the magistrate and the coroner to be at odds. Furthermore, he received his appointment as coroner because he is friend to the prime minister, and it is not good for the London magistrate and the prime minister to be at odds.

“But sir,” said I, emboldened by my relation to him as scholar to teacher, “would you not say that those are political considerations, rather than legal?”

“Of course they are,” said he, “but like it or not, Jeremy, much of life is determined by just such political considerations — as you will learn, my boy, as you will learn.”

“Yes sir,” said I, somewhat chastened. “Then I take it that Mr. Burn-ham is a prisoner.”

“No, not quite, for putting aside the politics of the situation, there really isn’t a strong case against him. But still, he must answer the charge made against him, and he must answer it with a verifiable alibi. So far he has refused to do that, for you found that he had lied with regard to his whereabouts on the nights in question. He cannot simply refuse to respond or lie, as he has done — and that, to return to what I said in the beginning, is the second matter against him. He must be made to treat this matter seriously, or I shall have to bind him for criminal trial in Old Bailey, and with the Somerset case now before the Lord Chief Justice, it is not a good time for any black man to present himself for trial.

“Now, as to Mr. Burnham’s present situation,” continued Sir John, “I would put it that he is here for interrogation, but we shall do all we can to create the notion that he is already a prisoner. I have instructed Mr. Fuller to dispense with the usual courtesies extended to one who is brought in for questioning. I wish to impress upon him the precariousness of his situation. I shall interrogate him in a most severe manner.”

He paused then a good long pause, perhaps pondering what he might say to Mr. Burnham. But, rousing himself, he rose swiftly from his chair and said, “I think we’ve kept him waiting long enough, don’t you? Bring him to me, Mr. Fuller,” he said. “And Jeremy, go upstairs and fetch my sling, will you? Mr. Donnelly will soon be here and I do not wish to have him take me to task in this matter of my wound.”

Upon leaving Sir John’s chambers, I was surprised to see Frank Barber still at the bars of the strongroom, yet they could hardly be said to be conversing. Mr. Burnham was talking at Frank passionately, almost angrily. Though he spoke in tones too low to be understood, I could tell by the set of his body and the look on his face that he was most upset.

“Oh, Jeremy, I’d a word with you, if you don’t mind.” It was Mr. Fuller, catching me up with a tap upon the shoulder. He was remarkably respectful. I knew not quite what to expect.

“Yes? What is it, Mr. Fuller?”

“To tell the truth, I feel a bit foolish about this, but Mr. Baker mentioned to me that you took my little joke to heart.”

“Your little joke?” What he referred to was now so far behind me that I was honestly in confusion as to just what he might be referring to.

“Well … I seen you go down to the cellar with that girl who helps out Lady Kate. And just for a joke, I shut the door and locked it.” He looked away, obviously embarrassed. That quite astonished me. “Yes, it was me did it, but I meant nothin’ by it, just as you might do with one of your mates. But Mr. Baker said you got out right enough.”

“That’s true,” said I, letting the matter pass. “No harm done, though the girl was somewhat upset.”

“They get so. Give her my apology. But as you say, ‘No harm done.’ “

With that, we parted company, and as we did, he offered me a little two-fingered salute, as one might give to a superior. That quite amazed me. Yet before I could consider what it might have meant, a row suddenly broke out between Frank and Mr. Burnham. I did not hear what set them off, but Frank yelled at the other not so much in anger as in a tone of pleading; nevertheless he terminated his discourse with a shout: “Don’t be a fool!” Then did he turn and stalk away.

Robert Burnham shouted after him in an angry voice I had not heard from him before, “Do not dare cross me in this, Frank Barber!”

It appeared, however, that Frank had no intention of heeding Mr. Burnham, for he did not turn and look back but went directly out the door to Bow Street. As the door slammed, Mr. Burnham responded by pounding the wooden bars of the strongroom in apparent frustration. By the time I reached the strongroom, Mr. Fuller had gone off to fetch the keys, and I was left alone for a moment with this prisoner (who was not quite a prisoner). He was turned away, his head bowed, and a frown upon his face.

I considered the possibility of simply walking on to the stairs, which in a way I should have preferred. Nevertheless, I felt obliged to show him that my sympathies lay with him. Would it matter to him? Perhaps all he needed was a bit of personal encouragement to push him toward Sir John’s purpose.

“Mr. Burnham,” I called to him, “how do you now?”

“You see me here as I am, and you can ask such a question?” said he. “I daresay you are not the keen lad I thought you to be.”

That stung a bit. Still, I ‘was not to be so easily put off.

“I fear that was a bit callous, sir,” said I. “Forgive me. But … well, if you will but aid Sir John in his inquiries, then there would be no need for you to remain where you are.”

“You, as well? Tell me, did you instruct Frank Barber in his arguments? Or did he you? Of a sudden, all those I counted as friends seem to be against me.”

I knew not how to respond to that, and further did I hear Mr. Fuller rattling his keys behind me. There seemed little to do but take my leave.

“I beg you to believe that I am not against you. I wish you only well, sir.