Bruce Alexander - The Color of Death

“So I am,” said I. “And I’ve need to talk with your master today.”

“My master? You mean, Mr. Zondervan? Why, he has just returned from Holland. He was not even present at the time of that robbery.”

“There has been another since then,” said I, “and in any case, I am not come to interrogate him, nor would I presume to.”

“Oh/’ said the butler. “What then?”

“I have an invitation to offer him.”

“Give it me, and I shall deliver it.”

(All butlers are the same.)

“I am to present it in person.”

“Yes … well … indeed.” At least I had succeeded in perplexing the fellow. “All right, come inside and stay here at the door. I shall go and discuss the matter with Mr. Zondervan.”

I did as he said and saw him disappear down the long central corridor. As I did, I became aware of a hum of activity throughout the house. Voices, footsteps, even a bit of hammering and sawing sounded from deep within the place. Might it have been upstairs or down? In truth, I could not tell.

I had not long to wait, for the butler quickly reappeared. I could not tell from his expression if I were to leave or be conducted into his master’s exalted presence, for he wore, as near as I could tell, no expression whatsoever. He stopped a modest distance from me.

“If you will follow me, please.”

That I did, and gladly. He moved along at a good pace, yet I had no real difficulty in keeping up. Remaining a few steps behind as I did, I was able to look right and left into the rooms as we passed them by. I know not quite how to express this, but an air of departure, of sudden change, seemed to have settled over the place. At first it seemed that there was naught which seemed truly different, except for cloths thrown over the damask-covered furniture in one room. But in another, there was something truly astonishing: that was the room wherein Mr. Zondervan’s collection of paintings had been hung. The door stood open (which, I had been given to understand, was quite rare), and the afternoon sun poured in through the windows, lighting walls that were altogether empty. The room, which but a week ago was crowded with canvases, was now quite bare of them.

Could it be? I wished to stop and go inside the room to give it a thorough examination — but of course, I could not. I glanced back over my shoulder and gave a swift count to the rooms we had passed — yes, as I thought, there were three that side of the hall, which made this the fourth, which fitted my memory exactly. Yet perhaps my memory played me false.

“Young man, this way please.” It was the butler, standing before the door opposite the empty picture gallery. I had wandered past him as I stared.

This was quite embarrassing. Nevertheless, I was determined to find out more.

“The paintings,” I whispered to the butler, as I pointed at the room across the hall, “what happened to them?”

“They’ve been moved,” said he, his face quite like that of a statue. “Spring cleaning, you know.” And then, with a slight bow — hardly more than a nod of his head — he indicated the open door, and I proceeded into the room.

Mr. Zondervan was not quite what I expected. Mr. Gabriel Donnelly had told me what a remarkably entertaining man he was, and I had heard his great booming laugh, and so I believe that I thought to find a proper Dutchman of the sort frequently caricatured; which is to say, I looked for one who was fat, blustering, and jolly. What I found instead was a man of near six feet in height, slender, and handsome both in his features and in his bearing. He looked, in short, as every Englishman hopes to look. He stood next the fireplace, his elbow upon the mantelpiece, examining a vase of delicate porcelain, which, to me at least, appeared to be of Chinese origin. It looked quite like that one which Thomas Roundtree had stolen from Lord Mansfield’s house and thereby brought such misery upon himself.

Mr. Zondervan looked up, took my measure, and surprised me by offering me a bow of an impressive depth; I could do naught but return the salutation.

“I like your manners, young sir,” said he intelligibly enough, though with a bit of an accent. “Come over here, let me show you this vase.”

I came forward (noticing as I did that the butler remained standing in the doorway) and looked with some interest at the object in Mr. Zondervan’s hands. He surprised me a second time by handing it to me.

“You will be careful of it, of course,” said he. It was in the nature of an order. “You are no doubt surprised at its lightness.”

And indeed I was careful, though I was not surprised at its negligible weight. In that way, as in nearly every other, it was a duplicate of that which belonged to Lord Mansfield. It differed only in the design or picture which it bore upon its side. Whereas the one I held presented a noblewoman gesturing in a pacifying manner, the other, as I recalled, offered a dragon in an unusual pacified posture — head down, its scaly feet stretched out before it in an attitude of obeisance. No doubt it illustrated some tale well-known to the Chinese.

“Yes,” said I, “it is wonderfully light. Even more impressive is its beauty.” I offered the vase back to him.

“Ah, a true connoisseur,” said he, taking it.

“I am flattered.”

“You should be. I am the greatest of connoisseurs. For me to name you as one also puts you in truly exalted company.”

At that, he erupted into laughter. I do not believe that he thought it such a great witticism. Perhaps he wished only to signal to me that it was indeed a witticism and not spoken in earnest. When at last his fit of laughter subsided, he placed the revered object upon the mantel and studied it for a moment.

“This vase has a mate. Did you know that?”

I had vowed to myself that I would plead ignorance in this matter — and I kept my pledge. “Why no,” said I, “have you seen it? How do you know that this mate exists?”

“I held it in my hands last night.” He shrugged. “But even before that, I knew that this mate existed, that it had to exist.”

“Oh? How is that, sir?”

“Well, you see, there is a Chinese proverb — is that the word, ‘proverb’?”

I nodded reassuringly.

“And the proverb says something like this, ‘Even the fury of the dragon can be stilled by words of comfort from a beautiful woman.’ “

“You have the beautiful woman, and so the mate to your vase must picture …”

“The dragon, yes,” said he, “exactly so. It is a most unusual sort of dragon, for he grovels before her. In every other way the vase is exactly like the one here on my fireplace. Same size exactly, same shape … Och, I would love to own it!”

“Well, why don’t you buy it? Make an offer?”

My questions were left unanswered. Of a sudden, he turned round and looked sharply at me. “Charles says you are from the Bow Street Court, and you wish to offer an invitation.” Then did he shift his gaze beyond me and call out, “Is that correct, Charles?”

“That is correct, sir,” said the butler.

“And so, young sir,” said Mr. Zondervan, “what sort of invitation is it? To dinner? To coffee? To Newgate?”

He caught me with that. “Newgate, sir?” I laughed. “Oh no, not to Newgate. It is my understanding Sir John wants merely to meet you.”

“To meet me? Has my fame spread so far? How would he hear of a simple Dutch trading man like me?”

“Why, from Mr. Gabriel Donnelly, sir. I believe you met him last night, did you not? It was at some dinner or other.”

Then a look of realization appeared upon his face. “Och, ja! The Irish doctor! I brought him last night to his home.”

“And I brought him away again.”