Bruce Alexander - The Color of Death

“I honestly do not understand,” said I. “Do you not trust Sir John?”

“Of course I do. And for that matter, I trust you, too.”

“Do you fear retribution from this nameless trader?”

“I fear no one.”

“Then, sir, please make it clear to me why you refuse.”

Mr. Martinez nodded, then said nothing for a good long moment as he considered the next step to take. At last he proceeded.

“Are you a Christian?” he asked me.

“Well, I … I try.”

“And you know that I am a Jew, and I, too, try. Our two religions have much in common. Among the most important: We worship the same God, and we live by the same rules of life.”

That last was a bit obscure to me. “Sir?”

“The Decalogue,” he explained.

“Sir?”

“The Ten Commandments.”

“Ah yes,” said I, “of course.”

“One of these Commandments — it is the ninth — prohibits the bearing of false witness. It tells us not to say of another what we know to be false. In commentary, this has been extended to mean not only must we not speak falsehoods, we must also say of another only what we know to be the truth. Now, concerning the man of whom I spoke, it may well be that all I told you of him was true, yet I cannot be certain. I do not know it from my own experience, therefore I have withheld his name that I may not bear false witness against him.”

I followed his reasoning, and I admitted to myself that it was sound reasoning. Nevertheless, I felt obliged to attack it.

“But sir,” said I, ” you said that the man in question is Dutch. Surely that provides a considerable hint to his identity.”

“Indeed,” said he, “but there must be hundreds of Dutchmen in London, perhaps over a thousand.”

“Well …” said I, grasping for inspiration, “it may interest you to know that what little you have told me has already suggested to me one who fits it in a number of ways.”

“Excellent! I had hoped that it might, and that is why I chose to venture as far as I did in this matter.”

With that, he clapped his hands together in a gesture which I took to mean my time with him had ended. I could, I suppose, have wheedled and begged, but I was sure that it would have done no good and would have reduced me considerably in his eyes. Having thus made my decision, I thanked Mr. Moses Martinez politely and took my leave of him.

So elated was I at what I had learned from Mr. Martinez (or what I thought I had learned), that upon delivering the letter to the office of the provost marshal at the Tower of London, I charted a course for my return to Bow Street which would take me by Lloyd’s Coffee House.

As I had hoped, Mr. Alfred Humber was there at his usual table, sipping the usual strong blend of coffees served there. He was alone, which is to say, his young assistant was absent — off, no doubt, on some errand ordered by his chief. Lloyd’s was, as it always was at that time, humming with quiet conversation, with occasional interruptions from the brokers to the clerk at the chalkboard. He saw me enter and immediately signaled the nearest server. Thus the coffee was poured just as I reached the table. Though I was eager to be off to Bow Street, I could hardly decline the steaming cup that awaited me. I was, however, ungracious enough to say to Mr. Humber, as I sat down beside him, that I could not stay long.

“Ah well,” said he to me, “I’ve never known you to turn down a cup of coffee.”

“Right enough, sir,” I admitted, “and I thank you for it.” Then did I add: “I was wondering, sir, if you had any information for Sir John as might pertain to the robberies of the past week.”

“Well and good,” said he. “Indeed I do have information of a kind that may be helpful to the investigation.” He reached deep down into the interior of his coat and into a pocket hidden from plain sight and brought forth a letter of a kind quite like the one I had delivered to the Lord Chief Justice; only the color of the sealing wax differed. “It is all in here.”

Thus did he catch me unawares, taking my first gulp of the coffee that he had kindly provided. I swallowed it quickly — too quickly, I fear, for I fell immediately into a fit of coughing.

“You all right?”

I assured him that I was quite well as soon as I had my voice back. Only then did I venture to take a bit more coffee — just a sip this time. After clearing my throat once again, I asked Mr. Humber: “Might I know what information you’re offering to Sir John?”

He leaned toward me then and, lowering his voice, he said: “I’m afraid not. There are a bit too many about who would be interested in anything I might have to say on this matter.”

Looking about, I saw that what he said was no doubt true. Conversation had stopped at a number of tables around us. Two men at the closest were openly staring in our direction.

“I quite understand, sir,” said I, concealing my disappointment with another gulp of coffee. “That being the case, I fear that I must be off. Do forgive me, Mr. Humber.” I took another swallow of that sublime brew and stood. “Sir John will be eager to have the information you’ve provided. With your permission, then?” I bowed rather formally and, seeing one last sip left in the cup, I took my leave and that last sip, as well.

Well, of course I ajjumed Sir John would be eager to know what was inside Mr. Humber’s letter, but I knew I was myself more than eager. Therefore, I hurried the distance to Bow Street that I might have time to give Sir John my report and deliver the letter before his court session. Presumably, of course, I should be the one to read it aloud to him.

Upon my arrival, I saw just ahead of me that a most impressive (and familiar) coach-and-four had pulled up at the door to Number 4. It was unmistakably that of Lord Mansfield, the Lord Chief Justice, to whom I had earlier delivered the letter. Had he come to respond to that message which had disturbed him so in some more personal way?

No, evidently not, for when the footman came round to open the coach door, it was not Lord Mansfield who stepped down, but rather two young ladies of obvious quality. Both were well dressed; neither looked to be any older than I. The only difference I could discern between them (and, oddly, it struck me then as being of little moment) was in their complexion; the second of the two to emerge had face and hands of a rich chocolate hue. I had come to an abrupt halt, expecting Lord Mansfield to emerge and not wishing to get into his path; so I saw the young ladies at a slight remove, and they wasted no time in getting inside. I was nevertheless certain of what I had seen. With them inside, the footman leaned against the coach door, and the driver began his descent. It was evident they meant to stay a good, long while. I saw that it was time to follow those two young ladies inside.

They had not gotten far — no farther, indeed, than the strongroom. There they had taken their places. While the darker of the two posted herself at the bars and talked in earnest whispers to Mr. Burnham, her companion had taken a place behind them. Watchful as a sentry, she guarded them both.

I walked swiftly past them, yet not so swiftly that I failed to notice a few things. Though voices were so hushed I could not make out a word that was whispered, I did see that the darker of the two was standing so close to the prisoner that they were able to clasp hands between the bars; I saw, too, that in spite of her tears, she was quite beautiful. Her skin was a rich, lustrous brown, not quite so dark as Mr. Burnham s. Her facial features seemed also a mixture: She had full lips in the Negro manner, but her nose was as long and narrow as any in the city of London.

Her companion, blond and distinctly pink in complexion, regarded me in a somewhat hostile manner as I passed her by. Nevertheless, I thought her quite comely. Though not as striking as her companion, she was, in a way, prettier, and would, no doubt, be widely regarded as beautiful.