Bruce Alexander - The Color of Death

“You? I don’t understand.”

“Simple enough,” said I. “There was a murder last night, and I was sent by Sir John to fetch Mr. Donnelly to the location of the crime. He is, though you may not know this, the medical examiner for the coroner.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Zondervan, “I do believe I heard that.”

“Yes sir, well, coming from this dinner parry, he was full of your stories and talking of how well you told them. I believe they were tales of some town in Holland, one with a rather comical name. I can’t quite …”

“Ja,ja, Dingendam!”

“That’s it, of course. But Mr. Donnelly could not remember them properly, nor could he do them justice in the telling.”

“I daresay,” said he, puffing up a bit.

“But Sir John heard enough so that he was eager to meet you.”

“To tell him the stories?”

“Oh, perhaps one or two, but just to meet you, sir. He leads a rather humdrum life, poor man. We’re after him constantly to expand his circle of acquaintance, but he is shy of it — his affliction, you know.”

“Affliction?”

“Perhaps you didn’t know, sir, but he is blind.”

“Yes, yes, I heard something of that.” He fell silent then, considering the matter. Then, rousing himself: “Charles, have we any reason to doubt this young man is who he says he is?”

“None that I know, sir,” came the response of the butler from behind me.

“Well then, I believe that we can spare Sir John Fielding an hour or two, don’t you?”

“As you say, sir.”

“Have the coach brought round. I must attend to something before we go.” And then to me: “You will accept a ride in my coach back to Bow Street, I assume?”

“With pleasure, sir,” said I to him.

“Good. If you will wait for me at the door, I shall join you there.”

With that, Charles, the butler, ushered me out into the corridor and we began our march to the street entrance. As we set out, I could not but notice that the door to the room across the hall — the former picture gallery — had mysteriously (and noiselessly) been closed. Then did I note that all the doors along the way, some of which had earlier stood open, were now likewise shut.

The butler left me at the vestibule, promising that the master would be along shortly. “I must go summon the coach, or you and he will both be kept waiting.” Then, turning, he left me.

When I stood at that same place a few minutes before, I had heard sounds of considerable activity from a place or places in the depths of the house. So was it again. The hammering, the sound of heavy objects pushed across the floor, all of it heard, but dimly, suggested to me that preparations were underway to move Mr. Zondervan’s entire household a considerable distance. There were voices, too, of course, yet so muffled and indistinct that it was impossible to make sense of what they were saying. Yet as I listened, I remembered that Sir John had often said that each voice had its own song, its own pitch, and its own key. And it seemed to me that I knew the song one of those voices was singing. It was a song I had heard before. This one, it seemed to me, came from somewhere below stairs, and though I could understand little or nothing of what it said, I sensed the emotion it expressed: It was anger, no mistaking that — and this, too, seemed right. Where had I heard it? Who was it? Whence such anger?

I know not how long I stood there, deep in concentration, trying to answer those questions. Yet when I heard footsteps down the hall, I looked up, smiling, to greet Mr. Zondervan. He stepped briskly into my sight, the very picture of male elegance in dress; he wore a cape about his shoulders, and in his hand he carried his tricorn and his gloves.

Though the butler was absent, I saw no need to wait for him to open the door for his master. I hauled it open and pulled it back. Quite heavy it was, too.

“Good God, where is Charles?” asked Mr. Zondervan more or less rhetorically.

As if in answer came the sound of running feet, then appeared the butler, jog-trotting for all he was worth.

“Too late, Charles, this young man has usurped your position, I fear. He opens the door with great authority.”

“Sorry, sir, I was delayed in back there with the porters.”

“Ah well, the coach will no doubt soon appear.”

“At any moment, sir.”

And indeed in the very next moment it did come, rattling, rumbling, clop-clop-clopping into view. The driver reined in the four horses before the house, and the footman was down in a trice to throw open the door to the carriage. Mr. Zondervan strode past me and was already down the steps before he turned round to look for me.

“Come along, young man — unless it is that you would prefer to walk.”

“By no means, sir,” said I and ran in pursuit.

I have no idea how at that moment I happened to remember, nor what trick of the mind then came into play, but it was precisely then, as I scrambled up and into the interior of the coach that I realized whose voice I had heard in the vestibule. It belonged to none other than Constable Will Patley, the most recently recruited of the Bow Street Runners.

In the event, the meeting between Sir John and Mr. Zondervan was something of a disappointment — or so it seemed to me. The two got on famously. Whereas I expected Sir John to launch into a merciless interrogation of the Dutchman, all I heard from the magistrate’s chambers was the sound of laughter. How could he be taken in by him in such a way?

Later it occurred to me that my expectations were rather unrealistic. After all, what more had he to rely upon than my suspicions that Mr. Zondervan was indeed the ruthless Dutch trader that Moses Martinez had described to me in such peculiar fashion? (And later, much later, I discovered that he had a good deal more than that to rely upon — but I anticipate somewhat.) Leave it that having done my part in persuading Mr. Zondervan to visit Sir John, I expected for insufficient reason that some great result would come from the meeting. And so in my frustrated state, I felt relieved when at last I detected sounds indicating the Dutchman’s imminent departure; chairs scraped across the floor as their occupants rose; the laughter ceased; their voices deepened in cordial farewell.

As both men appeared at the door to the magistrate’s chambers, I rose from the bench nearby. Sir John summoned me to them.

“Jeremy,” said he, “would you accompany this gentleman to his coach?”

Then did the gentleman in question make his final farewell in phrases so fawning and insincere that I now find that I have expunged them totally from my memory. All I can now recall is that I suddenly experienced a profound wish to gag.

I fought it off, however, and in respectful silence conveyed our guest to the door, and through it to the street. There he paused before his waiting coach and offered me a smile.

“I wish to thank you, young sir. I spent a very pleasant hour with your Sir John Fielding. I found him a charming old character, not in the least impeded by — how did you call it? — his affliction.”

We said our goodbyes, and I, once more feeling my gorge rising, retreated swiftly through the door. When I reached Sir John, I found him once more at his desk and chuckling still.

“Jeremy, come in, come in,” said he. “What did you think of him — this fellow Zondervan? Very amusing, very entertaining, couldn’t you say/

Well, you certainly seemed to find him so,” said I, a bit cross. “I’ve seldom heard such laughter come from this room.”

“I believe I laughed as much at our situation as what was said.”

“And what was the situation?”

“Each of us was trying to convince the other that he was different from what he might seem.”