Bruce Alexander - The Color of Death

The butler, whose name was Egbert, answered my insistent knock a bit tardily, but answer it he did. He stood in the doorway, blocking my path, as if he feared that my intent was to push past him and into the residence. He was tall, over six feet, and he seemed to enjoy looking down at me.

“You again,” said he. There was no evidence of emotion to be seen in his face, certainly no sign of pleasure at my visit.

“Yes, it is I.” With a smile upon my face, I responded most pleasantly to his baleful look. “I have a letter for Lord Mansfield from Sir John Fielding, magistrate of the Bow Street Court.”

“What does your letter concern?”

“I know not, for I did not take it in dictation, and I would not tell you in any case, for what it concerns comes under the heading of official court business.”

“Hmmmph,” said he, something in the nature of a belch it was, and yet it sounded, too, like a bit of a cough.

“Is Lord Mansfield still here?” I asked. “Or has he left for court?”

“Oh, he is still here. Give me the letter, and I shall deliver it to him.”

“I fear I cannot,” said I. “There is an answer requested.”

“The usual thing, eh? Well,” said he, throwing open the door and stepping aside, “come ahead then. His Lordship is at breakfast for the moment. Do not interrupt him longer than is necessary.”

I followed the butler at a respectful distance until a thought occurred to me. Then did I catch him up by moving forward at a jog-trot.

“Sir,” said I to him, “may I ask you a question?”

“You may.”

“Have you recently added to your staff a maid of the name of Pinkham?”

The butler looked back at me over his shoulder. “I am in charge of the staff,” said he. “I do all the hiring. I can assure you that no maid named Pinkham, nor anyone else, has been added to the staff for years.”

“Thank you.”

He conducted me to a surprisingly small room at the back of the house. It drew light through its eastern-facing windows. It occurred to me that this breakfast room may have been a later addition.

Lord Mansfield, wearing a robe, still in his nightcap, looking for all the world as if he had just staggered from his bed, looked up from a bowl of country porridge and squinted distrustfully at me.

“Ah,” said he, “it’syou, is it? Sir John’s lad. Got a letter for me, have

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you/

“Yes sir, I do.” Wherewith I produced the letter and presented it to him.

“He wants an answer, does he? He usually does.”

“A spoken yes or no will do, he says.”

“Hmmm.” Only then did he break the seal, open the letter, and start to read. As he did, he began blinking his sleep-weighted eyes and rubbing them vigorously until he had them wide open. At the same time he sat up straight in his chair and shook his head in a gesture of bewildered astonishment. He held the letter open before him for such a length of time that I was sure that he had taken the trouble to read through it twice. At that moment, I would have paid dearly to know the contents of the letter I had given to Lord Mansfield.

When at last he lowered the letter, he looked me straight in the eye and said, “You may tell Sir John, yes — emphatically yes.’ “

“Thank you, Lord Mansfield, I shall, of course, deliver your message.” I bowed and started for the door.

“Joseph,” said he to the butler, “show this young man out and return here immediately. We have much to discuss before I leave for court this morning.”

My route to the Tower of London took me near the office of Mr. Moses Martinez in Leadenhall Street. Because no limit of time had been put upon me, I thought I might look in on him. There was, after all, a chance that he might have heard something from Amsterdam regarding the jewels stolen from Lady Lilley. Or was I perhaps a bit too optimistic? It was less than a week that I visited him on Sir John’s advice to ask his aid in the matter. In any case, I proceeded up the street which led past the imposing home of the East India Company, then beyond to the more modest building wherein Mr. Martinez maintained his chambers, and his living quarters, as well.

Again, I was ushered swiftly into his chambers by a young assistant. (I had but to mention Sir John’s name.) Mr. Martinez stood, welcoming me politely, yet he wore on his face a curious and slightly confused expression as he waved me to a chair.

“Was there some other request from Sir John?” he asked in a somewhat tentative manner.

“Uh, no sir,” said I, “but I was wondering if any word has come from Amsterdam. I know it hasn’t been very long since — ”

“Longl Young man, two letters were posted only Wednesday. They may not even have arrived yet. I would remind you that Holland is some distance away.”

“I … I know that, sir. I’m sorry to have troubled you.” I rose from the chair where I had sat, feeling quite mortified of a sudden at my own impatience, my inability to allow things to happen in their own time. No doubt I had caught a bit of that same sense of excitement that seemed to have possessed Sir John that very morning. “In truth, Mr. Martinez, Sir John did not send me — not today. Coming here was my own idea. As you may have heard, there has been another robbery, and I simply hoped for the kind of information that might move the investigation along at a swifter pace. Again, forgive me.”

By the time I had concluded this speech, I had retreated to the door, bowing frequently, and was about to leave in a great rush before Mr. Martinez could say another word. Yet he spoke out before I could make good my escape.

“Stay! Stay!” said he. “As a lad, I was like you myself. I could not tolerate the pace at which the world went — always too slow, never swift enough to suit me.”

He waved a finger in the air rather sententiously; I was reminded of a schoolmaster, or a vicar, perhaps.

“As I say,” he continued, “I remember having the same sort of feelings that you have today, and because I remember so well, I will tell you something that may be of interest to you.”

“Oh, tell me, please do.”

“It was something that happened yesterday which indeed made me wonder. There is a man known to me by reputation — his is a bad reputation. He was pointed out to me a year ago on the streets of Rotterdam, and a good many colorful stories were told me of his nefarious enterprise in Europe. It should be said, by the bye, that his criminal pursuits constituted his second business, for he presented himself as a successful trader in ordinary goods — compasses, lenses, linens — the sort of thing the Dutch are known for.”

“He was Dutch, then?”

“Oh yes, did I not make that clear? He did well enough in his first line of trade that he managed to keep secret his second line.”

“Which was …?”

“He dealt in all manner of stolen goods.”

“Jewels? Paintings?”

“That and much more.”

“And you saw this same man here in London, did you?”

“It was but one day past.”

“What is his name, sir?”

“Oh, I could not tell you that.”

Why ever could he not? He had good as described Mr. Zondervan of St. James Street to me. And now to withhold his name? That made no sense. Yet I told Mr. Martinez nothing of the kind. I had learned there were subtler ways of handling a reluctant witness.

“Then, sir, you must dictate a letter for Sir John in which you tell him all that you have told me about this man with the addition of his name. I shall wait in the next room, so I shall be none the wiser, and you may double-seal the letter tight so that I may not peek inside.”

“That would do no good,” said he. “I cannot divulge the name, not even to Sir John.”