Bruce Alexander - The Color of Death

Sir John had jumped to his feet when I informed him of the odd circumstance of the theft in Little Jermyn Street and declared himself fit enough to lead the investigation. Then did Mr. Johnson rise and claim a place in our party. Yet when Mr. Burnham attempted to do the same, he met strong resistance from Sir John.

“Do you not see,” said the magistrate, “that it would be a slap in the face to bring into Mr. Trezavant s home the very individual who was the cause of his humiliation earlier in the day? “

“It would be a good lesson for him,” Mr. Burnham declared.

“It might indeed,” said Sir John, “but neither you nor I is the one to teach it to him.”

All the way to the hackney coach waiting in Bow Street, he held firm against Mr. Burnham’s protests. And even when we reached our destination and dismounted from the coach, there were grumbles still. Then and there Sir John silenced him.

“Mr. Burnham,” said he, “please go home. You are but a street and a few houses away from Mr. Bilbo’s residence. Is that not so? Sir, I regret that our evening was cut somewhat short. Even more do I regret that it was necessary to detain you in Bow Street for near two days, but had you been more forthcoming …”

“I now regret my choice of action, sir.”

“Good. Then you will be less likely to repeat it.” Sir John thrust his hand out in Mr. Burnham’s general direction. “Come, let us press flesh and part on the best of terms. You are welcome in Number 4 Bow Street at any time. Visit me next week on some afternoon, and we shall continue our discussions.”

Mollified and reconciled, he grasped Sir John’s hand and pumped it vigorously. Then, taking his leave of Mr. Johnson, he blessed the occasion that permitted their meeting for this first time. For his part, the lexicographer assured him there would be other such occasions in the future. With that, after exchanging bows all about him, Mr. Burnham headed down Little Jermyn Street toward St. James.

“An odd fellow, don’t you think?” commented Mr. Johnson as he watched Mr. Burnham’s form dwindling down the street. “A prickly sort, yet at the same time rather unsure of himself.”

“Oh, but intelligent,” said Sir John. “You have my word on that.”

“And a gifted teacher — or so I hear from Frank Barber.”

It struck me as strange to hear the two men assess Mr. Burnham so. I wondered what they might say of me if I were absent.

“Well,” said Sir John with a sigh, “let’s inside, shall we? The sooner we begin, the sooner we’ll have done. Give the door a good, stout knock, Mr. Bailey.”

That he did, beating a tattoo upon it with his club. None within could have failed to hear.

“Very good of you to allow me to accompany you,” said Mr. Johnson. “I have long wondered what transpired at such nocturnal sessions as these.”

He seemed ready to go on in this vein, but there came voices behind the door raised in argument. One of them — unmistakably that of Mr. Collier, the butler — objecting sharply to … what? Then a stronger, deeper voice, also familiar: “Oh, enough of that!” Locks were thrown; bars were drawn; the door came open at last. And there stood Constable Patley, with Mr. Collier cowering behind.

“Ah, I knew it was you,” said the constable, throwing the door wide and stepping back. “This little mousie” — tapping Mr. Collier upon the shoulder — “feared it was the Africans come back, but I was ready for them if it was. He waved his club. “Come along inside. I got the two of them ready to talk to you, Sir John.”

Once inside, the door shut behind us, Sir John turned to Mr. Patley. “Two?” said he. “You say two? And who are they?”

“It’s the Mister and the Missus.”

“Ah, very well. We meet her at last, eh?”

“It’s an experience you’ll easily survive, sir. But this way, right through here.”

Our party moved swiftly down the long hall. I realized before we reached the door that the Trezavants awaited us in the room always referred to as the “library.” When at last we reached it, Sir John paused and signaled us to stand close round him.

“Now, Mr. Bailey and Mr. Patley,” said he softly, “I should like you to go below stairs and talk with all who will talk to you. Who in particular do you suggest, Jeremy? “

I took a moment to think. “I should say Maude Bleeker, the cook, and Mossman, the porter, would be best.”

“Very good. You’ve got that, have you? Find out which of the servants is missing. Search the room of that person. Meanwhile, one of you look outside the house for anything, anything at all, that may help us along.” Then did he pause for a moment, perhaps for effect, though more likely to satisfy himself that he had nothing to add to these, his instructions. “Alright then, off with you.”

The two constables started off together, ready to begin their task.

“Mr. Johnson? Shall we see what awaits us? Jeremy, give the door a knock.”

Thus bidden, I gave it a few sound thumps and immediately opened the door for Sir John and Mr. Johnson, not wishing them to be beholden to Mr. Trezavant for an invitation to enter. Once both were inside, I pulled the door shut and rushed ahead that Sir John might place his hand upon my arm and thus be led forward through unfamiliar territory.

Only then did I have a proper view of the master and mistress of the house. They were as unlike as they could be. The Mr. I have oft described as fat. Yet indeed those three letters — f, a, t — do no justice to the shape of the man; let us say, rather, elephantine or mountainous and thus begin the proper work of description. As for Mrs. Trezavant, all that I have said of him could be said of her in its antithesis. Where he was fat, she was thin (skinny even); if he was elephantine, she was serpentine; and if he appeared mountainous, then she seemed (what simile here? Perhaps, reader, if you have ever been inside a great cavern, this will do) stalagmitic.

Not that this great contrast was immediately apparent to me, for both were seated behind that grand desk which so dominated its end of the room. Oddly, both were dressed for bed, though it was not near so late in the evening as that might suggest; they wore heavy robes and proper nightcaps.

“Ah yes, Sir John,” said Mr. Trezavant, drawling in a most supercilious manner, ” you have come, have you? What a pity to have dragged you forth. We have no need in this instance of your investigative powers.”

“Oh? And why is that, sir? “

“Why, it is quite obvious who committed the theft. But ah” — he interrupted himself — “I see that you have another with you.”

“Well, you’ve often met Jeremy, of course.”

“Of course, but …”

“May I present Mr. Samuel Johnson?”

Big as he was, Mr. Johnson could hardly be said to have hidden behind Sir John. He had nevertheless managed somehow to shrink himself in such a way that he had remained, until that moment, an anonymous presence in the room. But then, raising his face to the Trezavants, he bowed — not deep, but in a most proper manner.

“At your service, sir and madame,” said he.

The effect upon the couple was altogether remarkable. Both rose quite automatically, a courtesy neither had offered Sir John. For his part, Mr. Trezavant said nothing intelligible and merely stammered awkwardly for near a minute. His wife, however, found a voice within her slender frame (and a very deep, commanding voice it was).

“Samuel Johnson? It is you then who wrote the dictionary?”

“Alas, madame, not exactly so. I am a poor harmless drudge who has written a dictionary. Nothing more.”

That, however, was sufficient to inspire from her an entire vocabulary of cooing and twittering sounds interspersed with phrases of abject idolatry.