Bruce Alexander - The Color of Death

“No sir, I — ”

His voice rose as he plunged ahead: “Indeed, I do not approve, though it is true that on certain occasions, when special duties were required of you, I have allowed, even specified, the wearing of pistols that you might frighten away interferers. Do you need to be lectured on this subject, Jeremy?”

“No sir.”

“Well then, let us consider that you have learned your lesson and taken it to heart, and let us thank God together that you neither killed nor maimed anyone in that unruly crowd. I admit that since you had the pistols at hand, you made good use of them.”

“Yes sir.” Hearing that, I brightened considerably.

“.And Jeremy? One more thing.”

“What is that, sir?”

“Do try to get along with Mr. Fuller, won’t you? You needn’t make a friend of him — just get along with him. That is all that is required of us in our dealings with most of those we see daily.”

Having promised Sir John that I would do my best to do just that, I left his chambers and, seeking Mr. Fuller, found Mr. Baker. In the hours that I spent after my time with the magistrate, it had grown dark. Just as Mr. Fuller came earliest in the morning, Mr. Baker was first to arrive at night. And so, as it happened, I returned the pistols to him.

He took them with a smile and a chuckle, and immediately he asked, “Which is the one needs cleaning?”

I looked at him queerly. How could he have known, after all?

Seeing the puzzlement written upon my face, he made the matter clear: “I happened to meet that fellow, Patley, on the way over, and he told me all about what you’d done — holding off a mob with a pair of pistols. I’d say you had some bollocks on you, lad.”

I blushed at his obscene flattery, yet I wondered, had he heard the whole story? “Did Mr. Patley tell you his part in it?” I asked.

“Why no, what was that?”

Whereupon I told him all: how, when I was faced with the choice of shooting a woman or being overcome by the mob, Mr. Patley stepped forth and sent her packing along with the whole wild bunch of them; and then, how he disappeared before I could so much as thank him.

“He did all that?”

“He did indeed.”

“I’m glad to hear he’s up to some good at last. The constables had about decided they’d rather have one-legged Cowley back again. Slow he may have been, but willing he was. This man Patley is about the un-willingest ever was.”

“I’ve made a promise to myself to judge less severely,” said I. “I’ve no right.”

“None of us has, I suppose,” said Mr. Baker.

“I regret to say I even put that little prank — locking the cellar door — on Mr. Patley. As it turned out, the guilty party was none other than Mr. Fuller. He owned up earlier today.” Then did I add a bit inconsequentially, “He acted a bit odd about it, though.”

“Odd?” said Mr. Baker, looking a bit sharp at me. “How odd? What do you mean?”

“Well,” said I, “it was the way he apologized — more than was necessary, it seemed to me.”

“That’s as I thought you meant,” said he. “I think I know how that came about. I was off with Mr. Bailey, and Fuller was just leaving, and we were all by the Bow Street door. That was when I first heard you beating on the other side the cellar door. I remember it well, for I was interested in what Bailey was saying. It was about you, so it was. He was talking how Sir John was reading law with you, and he wagered that you would be the next magistrate of the Bow Street Court. That struck me as most interesting, it did — and it must’ve struck Fuller the same way, given him something to think about on the walk home. Must’ve decided he did the wrong thing, lockin’ you up, don’t you think?”

It has been my observation that one may trudge along for days, even weeks, in a sort of fog — that is, with no real sense of direction, nor any feeling of having accomplished anything. And then one day you wake up, and all that is changed: You know somehow that things are falling into place; the tempo of the day increases; you feel yourself able to make associations and connections which before had been hidden to you.

I felt that change on the following morning, and I’m sure that Sir John felt it, too. Where he had kept largely to himself during previous days, he now strode about meeting the Bow Street Runners as they returned, one by one, from their night duties. He had been up early, earlier than I, and he had found his way downstairs well before his usual time. As soon as I had the fire going in the kitchen and some bread and butter inside me, I was down to see what I might do to help.

Sir John was deep in whispered conversation with Constable Brede and Constable Perkins. Though I wanted greatly to know the subject of their conversation, the three were so absorbed that I simply could not bring myself to eavesdrop in a crude and common way. I kept a respectful distance and simply burned with curiosity. It was only at the end of it all that I managed to hear anything worth hearing.

Mr. Perkins had broken away from the other two and was heading for the street door, when he turned and called back to them: “You may count on me, of course. But sir, tell me, when do you wish me there to start?”

“A little earlier than Mr. Brede, I think,” said Sir John. “Perhaps an hour, if you don’t mind, Mr. Perkins. I must arrange a few things first.”

“I don’t mind at all. I live quite near.”

“That, of course, is why you were chosen,” said Sir John.

“And not my fierce nature? My lion’s heart?”

“That, too, certainly.”

Both men turned away, laughing. Nor did Mr. Brede stay a moment longer than was necessary. Taciturn by nature, he mumbled no more than a few words, bobbed his head to the magistrate, and headed after Constable Perkins out the door to the street.

“Now you, Jeremy,” said Sir John as he waved in my approximate direction.

“I, sir? How did you know I was here?”

“Oh, I had a notion you were about. I hoped you would be, in any case.” As I came closer to him, he fumbled down into his voluminous coat pocket and fetched up a letter; sealed tightly it was, so that there seemed little chance of peeking inside. “This is a most important letter,” he continued, holding it out to me, “which I dictated to Mr. Marsden when you were out wandering about St. James Park with that chambermaid.”

“But sir, I — ”

“Oh, never mind. You’re being teased, lad. Can’t you tell?”

“I suppose so, sir,” said I. (Overearnestness was ever a fault of mine.)

“Very well, I wish you to deliver this immediately.”

I took the letter and saw that the name writ upon it was that of Lord Mansfield, the Lord Chief Justice.

“You’ve been there often, and know the way,” Sir John continued. “The most important thing, however, is to get this to him swiftly, before he leaves for Old Bailey. But this,” said he, drawing out a letter from his other pocket, “may be delivered afterward. It is, as you see, addressed to the provost marshal at the Tower of London. He will not have an immediate reply for you, but Lord Mansfield will — a simple yes or no. All that understood?”

I took the second letter. “Perfectly, Sir John.”

“Then off with you, lad.”

Indeed I did know the way. I had brought letters so often to the grand house in Bloomsbury Square that I could find my way wearing a blindfold — though I should never make such a claim to Sir John. And though it was quite early, I must say that I enjoyed the brisk walk up Drury Lane and beyond. I even found myself looking forward to the duel at the door with Lord Mansfield’s arrogant butler. Thank God, thought I, that I had had the presence of mind to wear my best coat that morning.