Bruce Alexander - The Color of Death

At last he spoke: “I’ve something to show you.”

Mr. Bailey and I exchanged puzzled looks; he rose, and both of us made for the door; so also did Mr. Mossman.

“Not you,” said Constable Patley rudely to the porter. “You stay here.”

Mossman did as he was told. We two followed Mr. Patley up the stairs and into the back garden. I had little noted it before, but the space was thickly grown with bushes and flowering plants now beginning to burst into spring blossom. He led us off the path to a corner, which, even in bright moonlight, seemed darker and less open than the rest. We pushed against the bushes. The branches snapped back and punished our thighs and ankles.

“Just a bit more,” said Mr. Patley. “Under that tree ahead.”

And so it was that at last we came upon that which we had been led out to see. Under the tree, nearly obscured by the bushes at its base, lay a human form, a woman’s body clothed in a petticoat.

Mr. Patley knelt down, pushed back the bush, and lowered his lantern so that we might look upon the face. It was Jenny Crocker’s face we saw — pale, drained of any hint of life, the color of death. Her eyes were open. She stared back at us coldly, as if accusing us of the brutal deed. Below her chin was the bloody wound that had taken her life. Her throat had been cut from ear to ear.

The discovery of Crocker’s body put the investigation into a state of absolute turmoil. Should she be moved? Mr. Patley was all for “dusting the dirt off her” and removing the remains to the kitchen. I insisted she be left where she lay, for that was as Sir John would have it. He argued that to leave her thus would be to show disrespect to the dead, and he only gave in when Mr. Bailey came to my side in the matter. The last I heard from them, Mr. Patley was swearing solemnly that he would “catch the whoreson who did this and personally send him straight to hell.” What Mr. Bailey said in response was lost to me, however, for when I came crashing down the stairs, I nearly bowled over Mr. Mossman, careened into the cook, and bumped heads with a blonde woman in robe and slippers, whom I took to be the Dutch maid, Hulda.

“All of you, back inside,” said I with all the authority that I could muster.

“What is it?” asked the cook.

“What have they found?” the porter asked quite simultaneously.

The Dutch woman said nothing, simply peered suspiciously at me.

“All your questions will be answered soon,” said I, “but I must insist that you go back into the kitchen.”

Reluctantly, they trooped back inside — except for Hulda. She looked me up and down and liked not what she saw.

“Who are you to tell us what to do?” said she. “You are but a boy.”

“That’s as may be,” said I to her, “but I speak for Sir John Fielding and at his command. If you wish to spend the night in your bed, rather than on the cold floor of the strongroom at Number 4 Bow Street so that he may question you tomorrow at his leisure, then I would advise you to do what he says — and what he would have me say speaking for him.”

She said nothing in reply but looked at me critically, then proceeded into the kitchen.

I followed her, closing the door behind us, and headed for the stairs. “Keep her here,” said I to the cook and the porter. “Sir John will be down soon.” And that was how I left them.

When I returned to the library, I found the interrogation proceeding apace. Mrs. Trezavant was enumerating, describing, and giving an evaluation to each piece of jewelry in her collection, no doubt at Sir John s request. Whether or no he had requested it, he seemed powerfully bored by her recital: He, now seated, moved his head about — right and left, up and down — in an exercise he sometimes used to keep sleep at bay; Mr. Johnson, his chin resting upon his chest, had evidently already succumbed.

I went quickly to Sir John, making no effort to tiptoe or otherwise muffle my footsteps. He turned in my direction as Mrs. Trezavant looked up in annoyance and stopped speaking.

“Yes, Jeremy, what is it?”

I bent to his ear and whispered the news, much abbreviated but accurate so far as it went. He nodded his understanding and rose. “I regret, Mr. and Mrs. Trezavant, that I must leave you and attend to matters below stairs.”

“What could you possibly learn from our servants that you cannot know from us?” she demanded.

“A great deal, I fear. You did not know, I’m sure, that a corpus lay in your back garden.”

“What’s that? What’s that? A corpus?” cried Mr. Johnson, suddenly awake and jumping to his feet with surprising agility.

“That is correct, sir,” said Sir John to his companion. “Do you wish to accompany us?”

“By all means, let us go then,” said Mr. Johnson, most eagerly.

“By all means, we, too, shall come along,” said Mr. Trezavant. “We must know who is dead.”

“Oh, I think not,” said Sir John. “That you will find out soon enough. And it has been my experience that servants are much more likely to talk freely if their masters are not present.”

“But may I remind you, sir, that they are our servants.”

“I’m aware of that, Mr. Trezavant, but if you insist upon interposing yourselves in such a manner, then you will make it necessary for me to bring them to Bow Street one by one that I may talk with them privately. It would likely prove disruptive to your household and troublesome to me.” He paused but a moment, then went on to add: “Please, sir, oblige me in this.”

A silence of greater duration ensued. Man and wife exchanged looks, then at last he responded to Sir John’s plea. “Well, you have bested me in this, sir, as you have often done before. Will you have further need of us?”

“I think not.”

“Then Mr. Trezavant and I shall retire. Goodnight to you.”

With that, we left. I led the way with Sir John at my side, his hand resting lightly upon my forearm. Samuel Johnson followed close behind; we were, I fear, not quite out of earshot when he pushed forward and said in a loud whisper, “Well done, sir, well done!”

By the time we had reached the kitchen, it had been decided that I must go and fetch Mr. Donnelly, the surgeon, and arrange for a wagon to convey Crocker’s corpus to his surgery.

“Do you not wish me to search round the body and describe its condition?”

“No,” said Sir John with a sigh, “the three of you have already trampled the area, no doubt. As for describing the body to me, perhaps I shall depend upon Mr. Johnson for that. He is said to have great powers of observation, and since he is with us, he may as well earn his keep.” Then did he call out to our guest, who trailed us on the stairway: “I trust you heard that, sir?”

“Oh, I did indeed, and I assure you I am quite ready to do whatever may be required of me.”

Having had the matter thus settled, I put Sir John in the charge of Mr. Bailey and made ready to go. As I said my goodbye, Sir John grasped my wrist and brought me closer to him.

“Jeremy,” said he, “the girl who lies dead in the garden, she is the one with whom you went out walking Sunday last — is she not?”

“She is, yes sir.”

“Well, I know not if you were attracted to her in the way that lads your age often are, but perhaps you were. If it is so, and you feel a sense ol loss, I want you to know that you have my sympathy.” “Yes sir,” said I obediently. “Thank you, sir.”

So troubled was I by his parting words that I pondered them the entire distance to Mr. Donnelly’s surgery. How did I feel about Jenny Crocker? Had I fancied her as all the lads in Covent Garden seemed to fancy Annie? Perhaps, for our conversation had touched upon intimate matters I had not discussed with any female; that, I admit, had titillated me somewhat — or perhaps more than somewhat. That she was quite fetching in a saucy and well-favored sort of way, there could be no doubt. She was likeable and responsive. Yet we had parted on bad terms — why was that? As I recalled, she had taken offense at my questions, which had to do with the robbery — quite ordinary questions, they seemed to me. Still, there was something more, was there not? She wanted something from me I was unable to provide — what it was I could not quite understand. Perhaps I was too thick-headed, or simply had not sufficient experience to read the signs.