Bruce Alexander - The Color of Death

All this I took in with a few furtive glances as I went past. Then, once beyond, the gawking faces of Mr. Fuller and Mr. Marsden took me somewhat by surprise. Yet they, in turn, were surprised, indeed more than surprised, by the two female visitors. It was as if they had never seen such before — and perhaps they never had.

I went quickly to Sir John’s chambers. There I found him standing at his desk, his attention fastened upon the open door, whereon I knocked.

“Who is there? Is it you, Jeremy?”

“It is, Sir John.”

Proceeding inside, I discovered Clarissa in a far corner applying Sir John’s official seal to a letter — apparently one just given her by Sir John. I was shocked. Had she now usurped my position as the magistrate’s amanuensis?

“Ah,” said she, looking in my direction, “the postman has arrived!” Was that to be my sole function? I thought not!

“Yes, Jeremy, I’ve just dictated a letter to Clarissa which must be delivered as swiftly as possible. I realize you’ve just returned from one such errand, but it is really most important to get this into the hands of Mr. Trezavant.”

“But Sir John,” said I, “Mr. Martinez has told me something which I feel I must convey to you.”

“It can wait, can’t it?”

“Well …” said I, most reluctant, “I suppose so. But I also have a letter for you from Mr. Humber.”

“Oh, give it here. We’ll get to it later.”

I had no choice, of course. I surrendered the letter. Just then, however, a despairing wail sounded from down the long corridor.

“What id that?” Sir John asked in a most peevish manner. “Just before you came in, Jeremy, I thought I heard the sound of female weeping. Now th’u.”

“You did hear a female weeping,” said I.

“Oh?”

“Indeed, sir. You recall that you postulated the purpose of Mr. Burn-ham’s long rides? ‘Two or three times a week and always on Sunday’?”

“Why, yes,” said he. “I do recall hazarding a guess of some sort.”

“Well, your guess has proven out, sir. She and a friend arrived in Lord Mansfield’s coach-and-four.”

“Ah, truly, you say? Why not invite them here into my chambers? I should like to meet the young lady who so turned the head of Mr. Burnham that he seems willing to go to the gallows rather than divulge her identity.”

“That will not be necessary, Sir John Fielding.”

All in the room turned to the sound of that voice — unmistakably female. It was, as I anticipated, the voice of the lighter of the two young ladies. She spoke for them both. Her partner was, at least for the moment, too distraught to express herself with ease; she sniffled into her kerchief and dabbed at her eyes.

“You have the advantage of me,” said Sir John. “You know who I am, yet I know not who you are.”

“That is easily remedied,” said she. “I am Lady Elizabeth Murray, and this is my cousin, Dido Elizabeth Belle.”

“Why, if I may ask, have you two young ladies decided to come here? Surely not simply to cheer our prisoner.”

“No sir,” said Dido, now recovered and speaking for the first time to Sir John.

“Oh?” said he. “What then?”

“My cousin and I are both wards of the Earl of Mansfield, who is the Lord Chief Justice. I believe you know him well.”

“Professionally acquainted, let us say, rather.”

“As you will,” said she. “I meant only to suggest that through him we know something of the law. We are here to make a formal statement.”

“One statement for the two of you?”

The two cousins regarded each other, frowning. Then did Lady Murray clear her throat and speak forth: “Two statements, I suppose, would be the proper thing, one from each of us. They will speak in support of Mr. Burnham. We just want them done correctly and according to the rules of law so that they will stand up in court.”

“I assure you, young ladies, I shall do my part.” Then did he turn away from them and toward us, Clarissa and me. “Will you summon Mr. Marsden, Clarissa? Tell him to bring pen and paper. And Jeremy, are you still here?”

“I am, sir.”

“Whatever for? Did I not tell you that the letter to Mr. Trezavant must be delivered quickly?”

“Uh, yes, Sir John.”

“Then off with you, lad. Take a hackney coach, if that will get you there faster. You’ll be reimbursed.”

I left the room at a jog-trot with Clarissa behind.

“Here, Jeremy,” she called after me. “You’ll need this, won’t you?”

I halted, turned, and saw that she waved at me the letter for Mr. Trezavant she had taken in dictation from Sir John. This was most embarrassing! “Yes, of course I’ll need it.” And I snatched it from her quite rudely.

“Here now,” said she. “I’ve saved you from making a fool of yourself, you must at least answer a few questions for me.”

“Oh, all right, but quickly. You heard what Sir John said.”

“What was this mysterious matter between you and him that had to do with Mr. Burnham’s long rides?”

I thought about that a moment. There was really no reason why Clarissa should not know. “Well,” said I to her, “Sir John guessed at the very beginning that the most likely explanation for Mr. Burnham’s frequent rides to the country was that he was courting some woman.”

“And you think it was one of those two, do you?”

“Of course — the more beautiful, the darker of the two.”

“Oh, but this is terrible!”

“Terrible? Why should it be terrible? She will make a statement which will prove Mr. Burnham’s alibi. He will be set free.”

“I know,” said Clarissa, “but just think of poor Annie! What will she do?”

“What will she do? Why, get on with her life, just as I must now get on to Mr. Trezavant.” And with that, I left her where she stood.

A few minutes later, sitting in the back of a hackney, I considered the fatuousness of women. Certainly Clarissa, and perhaps even Annie, would prefer that Mr. Burnham be punished for a crime of which he was innocent so that they might keep alive their foolish fancies. But was Mr. Burnham any less foolish? Had he not put himself in a most perilous position, all because he felt it necessary to protect the good name of a young woman? What romantic rubbish!

Though politely worded and nicely phrased, the letter to Mr. Trezavant was nothing more or less than a summons. Sir John had gone to some pains to explain that, while most impressive, the accusation he had made against Mr. Burnham was of no legal worth unless it were made in court. Therefore, much as Sir John hated to ask, it would be necessary for Mr. Trezavant to come to the magistrate’s court at noon that very day and repeat the accusation. Otherwise, Sir John would have to release the prisoner.

Mr. Trezavant made no attempt to hide his displeasure at this turn of events. Indeed quite the opposite was true. He railed against rules and procedures which allowed countless malefactors to go free and commit further crimes. This and other complaints were directed at me, as if I were at fault and had the power to change the situation. But in the end he left off such carping and agreed to do as Sir John had asked. Satisfied, I bade him good day and took my leave of him.

As Arthur had done before him, Mr. Collier accompanied me to the street door. He was, however, far more talkative than his predecessor had been — and far more inquisitive.

“Mossman tells me that you were with Mr. Robb when he died there in St. Bart’s,” said he to me. “What did he have to say?”

“Oh, nothing of value.”

“Surely he said something. ”

Hastily, I attempted to explain that while it was true that I had been with Arthur during the last hours of his life, for most of that time I had been dozing peacefully in the chair beside his bed. The few things he had said before that proved quite worthless.