Bruce Alexander - The Color of Death

But damage had been done. Mr. Trezavant turned round and faced the courtroom — and quite charged with indignation was he.

“You would not think it amusing,” he shouted out, “if you were to hear in precise detail the steps those black villains meant to take in castrating you — now would you? “

The laughter ceased abruptly, except for a few titters and giggles heard from the females at the back of the large room; they, too, quietened as Sir John beat louder still upon the table before him.

“I’m sure we would not think it in the least bit amusing,” said he when all was quiet. “I take it, Mr. Trezavant, that you told the robbers what they wished to know.”

“No sir, I referred them to one of the servants who had greater knowledge of such matters than I. As it happened, my wife had taken her jewels with her on a visit to her father in Sussex.”

“So you might have been gelded to no purpose whatever.”

“I had not thought of it quite that way.”

“Indeed, sir, you might prefer not to. But let us go now direct to the matter at hand, shall we? You indicated earlier that the man who made those threats to you, who was the leader of the robber band, is in fact here in this courtroom. Is that not so?”

“It is, Sir John.” Mr. Trezavant seemed to speak with a confidence that was of a sudden renewed.

“Do you see him here now? You have my word, sir, that he is one of the four you noticed earlier. Can you pick him out from the rest?” He gestured toward the four. “Stand, please, all of you.”

“I … I am confident that I can identify him.”

“Very well, take your time.”

He not only took his time, he also took it upon himself to move much closer to the four. Had it been within his power to walk softly, he might have accomplished his purpose — due, that is, to Sir John’s blindness. Nevertheless, at a good twenty stone, he would have been utterly incapable of tiptoeing about. An individual large as Mr. Trezavant could only crash about in one compass direction or another.

Thus it was that the witness had not got far ere he was called back by Sir John, who advised him to return to his place.

The witness objected: “How am I to see them clear if not close up?”

“Sir,” said the magistrate, “I have it on good authority that on the night in question, you could not see clear at all because of your inebriated state. Since it would be time-consuming and inappropriate to put you again in that state, let distance serve in its stead.”

Glowering, Mr. Trezavant returned to the point from which he had started. Though he said nothing more about the matter, it was evident that so far as he was concerned, the matter was not settled.

He did not take long to make his choice. If his confidence had been shaken, there was no sign of it as he stood studying the four men, his right hand at his jowls, his left folded across his great belly.

“It is he who stands second from the right,” said he with great certainty.

“That, of course, means little to me,” said Sir John. “Since my affliction prevents me from viewing the man you have identified as the leader of the robbers, perhaps he might step forward and give his name.”

The man chosen by Mr. Trezavant did as he had been told. “My name,” said he, “is Philip Rumford, sir, as you should well know.”

“Oh? And why would I know that?”

“Because, sir, you employ me as a constable.”

“Ah yes, so I do. Mr. Marsden, will you fetch forth the towel that you brought into court today against such an eventuality?”

The clerk rose from his place at the table next to Sir John with a smile upon his face. In his hand was indeed a towel, which he must have had across his lap during this court session. He simply went to Mr. Rumford and handed it to him.

Mr. Rumford, for his part, took it from him and began rubbing at his face. “Oohs” and “ahhs” of wonder were heard from those in the crowded courtroom, for as he did so, the color of his skin changed from black (or at least the shade of brown that is commonly called that) to white (or the shade of pale yellowish pink that is so called). I knew Constable Rumford, of course, though not so well as some of the rest. He dearly loved a good joke, and one such as this would have greatly pleased him. When he had completed the work of wiping himself clean, the assemblage broke into applause. In response, he bowed left, right, and center.

“All applause is due Mr. Falder who applies cosmetics and paint at Drury Lane,” he declared. “He did us up right fair, didn’t he, Ben?”

He tossed the towel to him who had stood at his right. And as that one began to change the color of his skin, I saw to my astonishment that the man who caught the towel was none other than Benjamin Bailey, captain of the Bow Street Runners and my close companion for all my years in London. It was amazing to me, as it must also have been to many others in the courtroom, how completely a change of skin color disguised one.

Sir John had been quite lax up to that moment. He had allowed laughter and applause from the benches and permitted saucy comments from Constable Rumford. But the time had come for him to put an end to such frivolity. He beat without mercy upon the table at which he sat and called for “Order! Order!” and at last he was given what he sought: The room went still, and he cleared his throat and made ready to speak.

Before he could do that, however, Mr. Trezavant bellowed forth: “Sir John, I believe you tricked me.”

“Nothing of the kind, sir. The man you originally pointed out and declared to be leader of those who robbed your residence is here, right enough. Mr. Burnham, step forward and identify yourself.”

That Mr. Burnham did, though somewhat reluctantly (or so it seemed to me); he regarded Mr. Trezavant suspiciously, feeling perhaps that he still had something to fear from him; and if that were what he thought, then he may indeed have been right.

“I identified him correct one time, and one time is all that should be necessary. Send that man on to Old Bailey. I would see him hang yet on Tyburn Hill.”

“I cannot do that and would not,” said Sir John. “Mr. Burnham is now a free man. He is alibi for the entire evening in which you were robbed. He may walk from this court whenever he chooses to do so.”

“In that case, we have nothing more to discuss.”

And having said as much, Mr. Trezavant went stamping out of the Bow Street Court — which, technically, put him in contempt.

There was great rejoicing in Sir John’s chambers following that session of his court. Dido and her cousin, Elizabeth, had waited therein for word of the outcome. (It would have been unseemly for them to have appeared in a place so rowdy, so public as the Bow Street Court.) When it came — brought to them by Frank Barber, who ran ahead to tell — they began dancing about in a state of absolute jubilation. That, in any case, is how it seemed when I entered behind Sir John and Mr. Burnham. The magistrate smiled indulgently at the display of high spirits; Mr. Burnham, however, maintained the same somber expression he wore but a short time past in the courtroom when he stepped forward and identified himself to Mr. Trezavant. No doubt he was happy — or more than happy — to have the threat of the hangman’s noose removed. Nevertheless, he seemed to have learned a sobering lesson: that for a black man, no matter how comfortably situated, London was a far more dangerous place than he might ever have previously supposed.

Though I had not been present at their reconciliation, it was evident that Mr. Burnham had forgiven Frank Barber (though what had he to forgive?) for taking the initiative and informing Dido of the terrible predicament that those frequent visits to her had put her suitor in. She and her cousin had then acted to rescue him from that predicament. They were sorely disappointed, however, when they learned that the statements which had been prepared by them with the help of Sir John had not been read out by him in open court.