Bruce Alexander - The Color of Death

“So are many here in London.”

“True enough, but he lives in St. James Street, between the residences of Lord Lilley and Mr. Bilbo.”

“Mere coincidence, surely.”

“Perhaps, but when Mr. Collier, the butler who had been discharged by Lord Lilley, sought a place to shelter himself, he went direct to the Zondervan residence. And I suspect that Mistress Pinkham, who was herself discharged for divulging the hiding place of Lady Lilley s jewels, has taken shelter there, too.”

“But you’re not sure of that?”

“Well… no.”

“Mistress Pinkham is not, in any case, a recent addition to the household staff of Lord Mansfield?”

“No sir, I asked after her, and found she was quite unknown there.”

He shrugged. “Who knows where these young women go? No doubt she had a better offer elsewhere. But no, Jeremy, this man, Zondervan, does not — ”

“But sir,” said I, interrupting in a most insistent manner, “he has in his residence a gallery in which many pictures hang — paintings which I am sure are of great value.”

“And what makes you sure of that?”

“That they are kept under lock and key.”

“How is it you know all this?”

“I visited it the day I took Mr. Collier to Field Lane to tour the pawnshops. He had been allowed inside that he might view Mr. Zondervan s collection. He is a great fancier of such pictures and gave me to understand that these were of great worth.”

“Hmmm, well, that is certainly more interesting. Paintings have also been stolen. But I hardly think that the fact this Dutchman has in his possession a collection of valuable pictures would be reason enough to seek a warrant giving us leave to invade his premises and poke around in search of stolen goods. Nevertheless, all this is of interest, as I said. We might try to learn more about this fellow.”

There was then silence from him, the sort of silence that told me that my time with him had run out. Reluctantly, I rose to my feet and made ready to leave. Yet he had something more to say.

“By the bye, Jeremy, I hope you have not forgotten that it is this night that Mr. Johnson visits us to take dinner at our table.”

“Oh indeed not, Sir John.” (But indeed, reader, I had forgotten.)

“Wear your best. Shave yourself, if need be.” He then tested his own chin and jowls. “And yes,” said he, “I should like you to shave me, as well. Ah, but hold on, lad. You must tell Annie that there will be one more guest for dinner.”

“Oh? And who will that be, Sir John?”

“Why, none other than Mr. Burnham,” said he. “During those minutes following today’s session, I offered him an invitation. I meant it in apology for our treatment of him. And frankly, I believe he would have declined had I not mentioned that Johnson would also be present. That dictionary of Johnson’s has made a great celebrity of him. His opinion is sought on every subject. Before, he was naught but a writer — and I needn’t tell you in what low esteem they are held.”

I felt no necessity to comment upon that. Nevertheless, I had need to pass on to Sir John one last bit of intelligence. And so I turned, halfway to the door, and spoke quickly to him: “One last matter, sir. It has to do with the letter to Lord Mansfield which you charged me to deliver.”

“Yes, of course, and did you deliver it?”

“I did,” said I, “direct to him.”

“And what did he say in response?”

“He said, and I quote, ‘Yes, emphatically yes.’ “

“Very good,” said Sir John. “That is precisely the response I expected.”

Much transpired between that moment and the time, some hours later, when we were all situated round the table. It was, however, the sort of

mundane work of preparation that deserves no place in a narrative of this sort. Let it stand that all was done as efficiently and gracefully by us three as a dozen or so might have done in one of the grand houses in St. James. And let it be noted, too, that our captain in this endeavor was our dear Annie. No longer the silly girl she had been, talking of suicide or following her loved one into exile, she was the very model of cool mastery; there could be no doubt when the food was brought to the table that she had the situation fully under control. Which is to say, not only Sir John and Lady Katherine, but also Mr. Burnham and Mr. Johnson were so well-pleased with the roast of beef when it was served that they paid it the supreme compliment of silence as they swiftly devoured the first serving.

Not even Mr. Johnson spoke, and he bore the reputation of one who talked during and through dinner — snuffling and snorting, chewing and gulping — all the rude noises of eating. When he had done, he sat for a moment immobile, in a sweat, his knife in his right fist and his fork in his left. Then did he summon forth a great belch, which so surprised Clarissa that her hand flew to her mouth to stifle a giggle; he paid no mind to her.

“I have never eaten a better roast beef better cooked,” said he. “Tell me, young lady” — addressing Annie — “there is a different taste, something new to me. What have you done to it?”

Annie reluctantly drew her eyes away from Mr. Burnham and gave a demure smile to Mr. Johnson. “How generous of you to say so, sir,” said she. “In answer to your query, I use garlic quite freely. That, no doubt, is the source of the ‘different taste’ to which you referred.”

“Garlic …“he mused. “That is a foreign condiment, is it not?”

“Not foreign to my kitchen,” said she with a bit of a twinkle.

He chuckled appreciatively and Mr. Burnham quite gawked at her, no doubt taken somewhat aback at her choice of words and perfect enunciation. (Neither Clarissa nor I were in the least surprised at Annie, however, for we had often heard her carry on in this way for hours at a time; this was a role she had created for herself.)

“Perhaps you would like Jeremy to carve you another serving,” proposed Lady Katherine.

Mr. Johnson agreed that he would and asked that I also give him a bit more pudding and dripping. As I filled his request, he quite gladly accepted the offer of more claret from Sir John. I hastened to pour that, as well.

Once the silence had been broken, conversation began. All that it took was a question, and that was supplied by Mr. Burnham.

“Mr. Johnson,” said he, “what think you of the Somerset case, which is now before Lord Mansfield?”

“What do I think? Why, sir, I think a great deal. At the very least it would mean freedom for one black man, and at most it could mean the end of slavery in all our British colonies.”

“Indeed?” said Lady Katherine. “As much as that? How do you think it will be decided, Jack?”

“In some way between the least and the most,” said Sir John dryly.

Mr. Burnham persisted in his address to Mr. Johnson: “I myself am particularly interested in the case because in some ways it matches my own experience.”

“Indeed? How interesting. Tell me more.”

(Since you, reader, have already been given to know the circumstances of Mr. Burnham s manumission, it might be more valuable to learn, or be reminded, of the facts of the Somerset case of which they spoke. James Somerset was a black slave, owned by a man named Stewart in residence in Massachusetts. Stewart took Somerset with him to England, and here the slave remained in a state of forced servitude for two years, and then ran away. When he was recaptured, Stewart was angry and vengeful and so did hand over the slave to a sea captain named Knowles, who was to sail to Jamaica and sell Somerset there. Presumably, Knowles and Stewart would split the profits from the sale. But as it happened, there were witnesses to Somerset’s recapture, and they signed affidavits to the nature of it; these were used to obtain a habeas corpus, which Lord Mansfield, the Lord Chief Justice, himself issued. Knowles did fight the habeas corpus with an affidavit of his own, which put the blame upon Somerset for seeking his freedom. Lord Mansfield set a court date and vowed to hear the case himself. The matter came to the attention of Granville Sharp, an active abolitionist; he appointed an attorney to represent Somerset in his suit for freedom, and the case went to trial. It was in process at the time of this discussion.)