Bruce Alexander: The Color of Death

“Quite right. But now, if you will just put me with the butler …”

“Certainly, sir — right over here.”

The butler, a Mr. Collier, was a slight man of not much more than forty years with a bloodied bump on his forehead. He stood in a corner of the great entry hall, somewhat apart from the rest of the servants gathered there. His small hands were clasped before him in such a way that if his eyes had been shut or his lips moving, I should have sworn that he was praying. Indeed he looked like a man in need of prayer. Never, I think, have I seen a man appear so obviously overcome by worry. Sir John did not add to his burden. He questioned him as gently as I had ever known him to question any witness.

He did not, for example, ask Mr. Collier directly how it had come about that he had opened the door to the robbers; rather, he took a circuitous route and first solicited the opinion of the butler on a variety of matters related to the invasion of Lord Lilley’s residence.

Sir John asked, for instance, how many there were in the raiding parry. Mr. Collier’s reply: “That is difficult to say, sir, for in the beginning they seemed not so many, but I’m sure there were more of them there at the end.”

“All of them were black men?”

“All that I saw.”

“And did they speak as black men would speak?”

In forming his answer to this question, Mr. Collier paused; he seemed troubled. “Well, that was where I was deceived, you see,” said the butler. “I wouldn’t have opened the door to a black man at any time of the day or night, no matter what his tale of woe. But whoever it was talked through the door — I’d say he was probably the leader — and he talked just as any Londoner would. He made a fool of me for fair — and now I fear for my position. I shall be blamed for this.”

Only then did Sir John ask the question that must have interested him most: “What was it that he said which persuaded you to open the door to him?”

Realizing that he had come at last to the matter he wished sincerely to avoid, the butler hesitated long enough to clear his throat, then plunged ahead: “He described a most terrible carriage accident which he said had taken place nearby in St. James Street. ‘Was there a doctor who lived hereabouts?’ he asked through the door, for there was, he said, a woman pinned in the wreckage who could not be freed unless the carriage were set right. Footmen would be needed, or porters. Could any be spared? ‘The poor woman was near crushed,’ he declared. ‘She might die if she weren’t soon helped.’ “

The butler continued: “All this, mind, was said in tone and manner just as one might hear the same said in Covent Garden or any street in London — except there was terrible urgency in his voice. He seemed quite overcome with worry and fear. To this moment I find it difficult to believe that he was shamming.” At that point, Mr. Collier took a deep breath, as if fortifying himself for what lay ahead. “Well, what can I say in my defense? Convinced by the sound of his voice, I opened the door out of kindhearted concern, sympathy, and, well, curiosity, too, must have played a part.”

“But indeed you did open the door,” said Sir John.

“I did, sir.”

“What then occurred?”

“I had no sooner heaved back the night bolt and opened the door a crack when it was slammed against me. I fell unconscious there in the hall, probably only for a minute or less, for next thing I knew I was dragged down the hall and then down the back stairs to the kitchen. It was not until all the rest of the staff had been moved into the kitchen that I was fully conscious.”

“How many men entered by way of the front door?”

“I would have no way of saying exactly, for I was unconscious most of that time, but probably no more than three.”

“And were all of them black?”

“I could only say that the face I glimpsed ever so briefly as I opened the door was that of an African. I was told by others of the household staff, however, that all who entered, including some who were seen to enter through the rear door of the house, were unmistakably of the black race.”

“And what do you know of the murdered man, Mr. Collier?”

“Very little,” said the butler. “Walter Travis had not been long on staff. I hired him three months past to replace a porter who’d fallen mortally ill with the pox. Lord Lilley didn’t want one who was ill in such a way under his roof. Travis brought with him a good character from his last employer. I have no notion why anyone should have been killed, nor why they chose him.”

“Hmmm,” said Sir John, “it does indeed seem strange.” He mused a moment upon the matter, and then spoke up again. “You may go, Mr. Collier. By the bye, if Lord Lilley blames you, as you say he will, I should be happy to reason with him on the matter. I take it that he has been sent for?”

“He has, yes sir. Oh, thank you, sir. I am greatly obliged to you, sir.”

All the while the butler said this, he was backing away and bobbing his head like some puppet. I no longer pitied him as I had at first. He cared a bit too much for himself, it seemed to me, without caring much for others. What had happened, for example, to the poor fellow dying of the pox? Collier seemed not to care. Why did he say he would, under no circumstances, open the door of Lord Lilley’s residence to a black man at any hour, night or day? And why did he feel so unfairly deceived simply because one who proved to be black spoke as any white Londoner might speak? Had I not, that very morning at Dr. Johnson’s, met Frank Barber and heard him talk as any proper fellow from Fleet Street might? Not all those who look as Africans speak as Africans, after all.

By then it seemed to me that Sir John had been entirely too gentle with the butler. I was just putting together a well-reasoned complaint to the magistrate when he rumbled something deep under his breath.

“What was that, sir?”

“I said, ‘I never dealt before with such a lickspittle.’ “

“But … but … you encouraged him, Sir John. You were a good deal nicer to him than was necessary.”

“I may need him a bit later.”

Just then Constable Bailey appeared with a woman — hardly more than a girl — in tow. She had quite a saucy manner and seemed rather to enjoy the attention given her. She regarded the captain of the Bow Street Runners rather flirtatiously. For his part, Mr. Bailey’s attitude toward her was one of stony indifference. He delivered her to Sir John with a curt “Mary Pinkham, personal maid to Lady Lilley, sir. She may have something to say which you’d be interested in.” And having said that, he departed, returning to the task he had assigned himself.

“Well, Mistress Pinkham,” said Sir John, “what is it you have to tell?”

“Naught that would interest you, Your Magistrate, ‘cept — ”

“You seem to have me confused with the king,” said Sir John. “And while that is most flattering, the proper form of address when speaking to me would simply be ‘sir.’ ‘

“Yes sir,” said she, and gave a proper curtsey. “Well, as I was sayin’, sir, the onliest thing you might be interested in is that I was the last one caught.”

” ‘Caught’? I don’t quite understand.”

“Simple enough, sir. When the robbers come in, they caught most of the servants below stairs where they’d just finished eatin’, and Mr. Collier they caught when they come in. I was the onliest one was upstairs. I was in her ladyship’s bedroom, straightening up for when she comes back, laying out her nightgown and all.”

“I see,” said the magistrate, “and when were you aware that something was amiss downstairs?”

“Oh, I could tell. There was of a sudden a terrible lot of shouting and noise, and I could tell there was something wrong. I didn’t want no part of it.”