Bruce Alexander - The Color of Death

“He’s a merchant then?”

“Oh yes, and quite a successful one, too, I’m sure. And indeed, he must be the same man, for I now recall that he did mention that he lived in St. James Street.”

The hackney in which we had been riding pulled to a halt. A glance out the window told me that we had reached the stable. I threw open the door and promised Mr. Donnelly that I should only be a moment or two. And as it proved, engaging the wagon, the team, and the driver took less than five minutes in all.

The events of the rest of that long evening hardly warrant description. Even then, it seemed to me that I had spent many times like it before during my years with Sir John Fielding. Nothing conclusive was learned during the magistrate’s interrogation of Mrs. Trezavant’s maid, Hulda. All that was gained from Mr. Donnelly’s preliminary examination of Crocker’s body was that she had not been murdered where she lay beneath the tree, but dragged there from a place much nearer to the house. Mr. Patley’s lantern revealed blood on the path at a spot much nearer to the back door of the house. When the wagon arrived from the livery stable, Mr. Patley and I carried Crocker’s body out to the front and placed it in the conveyance. It seemed to me that every step of the way the constable uttered some new curse or a threat under his breath at those who had done this awful deed. The driver threw a canvas cover over the girl’s form and made ready to go. Mr. Donnelly climbed up beside the driver and they set off for his surgery in Drury Lane, where he would conduct a postmortem examination. Only then did our party, which included the two constables and Mr. Johnson, take our leave from the Trezavant residence and venture forth to engage a hackney. The evening was done at last. I was so greatly tired by the long day and the many nights I had recently gone wanting for sleep that, when I climbed up to my little bedroom atop the house, I managed only to kick off my shoes before I collapsed upon the bed and sunk instantly into a sound sleep.

And that, reader, is how Annie found me next morning. She shook me awake. Yet I came to myself only reluctantly, emerging from a dreamless sleep as from some deep, dark forest pool. I sat up, panting and gasping, doing my best to come to terms with the state of wakefulness into which I had been rudely hauled.

“What… what… I…”

I can only guess what I was trying to say to her at that moment, and I would venture that it had to do with the lateness of the hour. There was a sufficiency of light pouring in the two windows, so that the realization eventually came to me that I had overslept. I was, by custom, the first in the household to arise, for it was my duty to kindle the fire so that Annie might get up to a proper blaze and prepare breakfast. That is the way it had been even before Annie came into the household — since the time, that is, when Airs. Gredge ruled the kitchen. And during all those years — now nearly four — I could number the times I had overslept (and thus failed to do my duty) on the fingers of one hand. This was, I believe, only the third such occasion.

“Do wake up, Jeremy, please,” said Annie.

“I … I’m awake now,” said I. “Truly I am. I’ll have a fire for you in no time at all.”

I swung my feet out of bed and stood as tall as I might, as if to prove to her that I was fully capable of doing what was required of me.

“Don’t be silly, I’ve got one started. I’m quite capable of laying a fire myself. But I must talk to you now — while it’s quiet and everyone’s asleep.”

“Oh,” said I, somewhat puzzled, “all right.”

At her direction, I picked up my shoes and carried them down the stairs as I went tiptoeing in my hose. When I came into the kitchen, I found the fire burning bright and the kettle steaming away.

“Would you like a cup of tea, Jeremy?”

“I would, yes,” said I. Then, surveying the table as she poured the boiling water into the china teapot, I saw that she had baked scones, as well. “You’ve been up for well over an hour, haven’t you? Scones for breakfast? What’s the occasion, Annie?”

“Ah well, I thought I’d give you something to remember me by.”

“To remember you by? I don’t understand.”

“I’m leaving, Jeremy. This will be my last day here at Number 4 Bow Street.”

I looked at her, studied her face. I saw that she meant exactly what she said. “But why? What is your reason?”

“Oh,” said she a bit sadly, “I think you know my reason well enough — or if not, you can guess it.”

“You mean that matter with Mr. Burnham? Why, Annie, that’s nothing, nothing at all. Only Clarissa and I were privy to it, and you know that we’re your friends. We would say nothing of your embarrassment.”

“That’s what Clarissa said — and in just about the same words.”

“So you’ve talked with her about this?” In response she nodded, but then did an awful thought cross my mind: “You didn’t …” — How to put this? — “You’re not…”

“No, I’m not pregnant,” said she. “Nor was Mr. Burnham ever anything but a gentleman toward me. Jeremy, I’ve given a good deal of thought to this — and to that embarrassing matter these years past with Tom Durham — and it seems to me that both times when I made a fool of myself it was me, not anyone else, who was to blame.”

“Well, I see what you mean, but — ”

She interrupted: “Let me tell you a story. When I was a girl of twelve in Kent, and my mother was about to give in to my pleading and put me in service in London, she took me aside, she did, and she said to me, ‘My girl, let me show you the face of the only one can get you into trouble.’ And then from behind her back she pulled a looking glass and held it up to me. And of course it was my face that I saw.”

“Well,” said I, “I can see the sense of that, I suppose. She must have meant — ”

Annie held up her hand and silenced me. “But she wasn’t through, for then she said, ‘Now let me show you the face of the only one can get you out of trouble.’ And again she puts the looking glass before me, and again it’s my own face that I saw.”

She paused that I might understand the story better. She even took time to pour a cup of tea for me. Only then did she resume. “Now, for years,” said she, “I thought that she was telling me that when I left her, she washed her hands of me. But that wasn’t it, not really. What she was saying was that when I left, there was little she could do for me, so I would have to take control of myself and be responsible. Well, my first few years, as you know, I was none too responsible and not well-controlled, either. I kept hoping someone would rescue me. First I thought Tom Durham was the one, and then I thought it was Mr. Burnham would be my rescuer. But no, I’m the only one can do that — and by God, I’m going to try. I’ll rescue myself.”

They were brave words — but then, she was a brave girl. I’d known her long enough that I might attest to that. Still, that did not relieve me of my worries.

“How do you intend to go about rescuing yourself? ” I asked.

“Oh, I’ve a plan. I’d rather not talk about it just now, though.”

“You’ll need money, won’t you? Perhaps I could get some together for you if — ”

“Jeremy, you’re much too good,” said she, laughing as she interrupted me. “But no, I’ll not need money, not for a while. Late yesterday, when I’d had a chance to think all this through, I went down to visit Sir John and told him I’d be leaving. It … it was good to talk to him. He gave me a bit of money for each year I’d worked here. He promised me a grand character, as well — ‘the very best,’ he declared.”