Bruce Alexander - The Color of Death

“I don’t quite follow,” said I.

“Quite simple. He seemed to me to be rather large — at least tall. Have I got him right so far?”

“You do, yes.”

“And there was a bit of vanity crept into his voice, in spite of himself. And so I should say he is rather handsome, or fancies himself so. Altogether, he thinks himself superior to the rest of us. Did you see some of that?”

“I did,” I said. “I’d say you have him to the life.”

“And yet that tall, handsome fellow who believes he is one of nature’s noblemen comes before me and seeks to convince me that he is nothing more or less than a jolly Dutchman. And I, at the same time, do my best to convince him that I am naught but a … a …”

“A charming old character?”

“Right you are! A codger, an eccentric, a …” He stopped. “But whence came that ‘charming old character’ phrase?”

“Where indeed!” said I. “From Mr. Zondervan, just as he departed.”

“Perfect!” he gloated, all but rubbing his hands with glee. “But I bested him! He let drop a few things he would not have said to one he held less in contempt.”

I judged from this that Sir John held him seriously suspect. This, then, was the time to bring forth the observations I had made while in the house in St. James Street. I proceeded to do so, describing the empty picture gallery and the cloth covers thrown over the furniture, the general air of a household in transition.

“There was a good deal of hammering and sawing, and the sound of boxes dragged about,” said I. “The butler claimed that it was no more than spring housecleaning. Nevertheless, I am certain that they were preparing to make a move.”

“Yes, well, most interesting, I must admit.” He said it in that musing, dismissive manner that quite drove me mad.

And so I vowed that I would present the next bit of news I had for him in such a way that he would be unable to dismiss it in his usual manner. I thought how I might engage his interest.

“Sir John,” said I then in a tone of great importance, ” you will never guess who was there at Zondervan’s residence.”

“You are right, Jeremy, I will never guess that, for as you know — or should know by now — I do not indulge in such childish practices as guessing. Now, if you have something to tell me, by all means do so. You have my complete attention.”

“Do you wish me to tell you, or no?” I fear I sounded quite petulant, for I was rather distressed at that moment.

“I have said so, have I not?”

Having gone thus far, there was naught for me to do but continue. And so I described to him where I was when I heard Constable Patley’s voice, and how I heard it; which is to say, as a song without words. Sir John did indeed listen carefully, and when I had done, he seemed for a few moments to be at a loss for words. On such rare occasions, it was difficult to divine just what he might be thinking.

But then he shrugged rather grandly, and I could tell that he had decided to deal with it as lightly as possible. “Ah well, those old houses, you know,” said he, “they play tricks upon your ears. If you had stood in some other spot, the same voice might have sounded exactly like Clarissa’s or even mine.” At that he laughed abruptly, as if the very idea were so outlandish that it amused him greatly.

“I do not believe, sir, that Mr. Zondervan’s house is particularly old.”

“Ah well, some of the new ones also have such faults. But let us get on to more serious matters, shall we? I have here a letter that must go out by today’s post. In your absence, Mr. Marsden took it in dictation for me. Will you take it to the post coach house, Jeremy?”

We had done with our sparring. “Of course I will, sir.”

He pushed it from its corner across the desk toward me. I reached over and took it, turned it over, and saw that it was addressed to the chief customs officer, Gravesend, Kent. Below that, written in red, as Mr. Marsden so often liked, was the single word, “urgent.” I could not suppose, nor even imagine, what matter Sir John might have with the chief of customs down at the mouth of the Thames. But I would ask no more questions. I would simply go where I was sent, and do what I was told, like a good errand boy.

I said my goodbye and started for the door, only to be called back.

“By the bye, Jeremy, you did not happen to mention to Mr. Zonder-van — or to anyone else, for that matter — that you believed you had heard Constable Patley’s voice in the house, did you?”

What was he getting at now? “No sir, I told only you.”

“That’s as it should be,” said he. “Keep it so.”

Like many an errand boy before me, I sulked the distance to my destination and dawdled all the way back. I dawdled willfully and skillfully, investigating streets and shops that had not, until then, received proper attention from me. So much time did I waste that before I knew it, dark had fallen without my notice. When at last it did come to my attention, I thought it likely that I was late for dinner. But then, with Annie gone, would there be any dinner?

In any case, I hastened home to Number 4 Bow Street and arrived in time to see the last few of the constables disappearing into Sir John’s chambers at the end of the long hall. An operation of some size was under way.

Jog-trotting down the hall, I was stopped by Mr. Baker, who was checking his armory.

“What’s afoot?” I asked him.

“Something big,” said he. “Pistols and cutlasses for all, and I’ve been invited along. He’s been asking for you, Jeremy. Better get inside.”

As I stepped into the magistrate’s chambers, I did a swift survey of the Bow Street Runners in the room and counted but nine present. Constable Perkins, Brede, and Patley were missing.

Sir John stood before them. “… and much as I dislike it, it will be necessary to divide our meager force …”

There would be little point in presenting to you, reader, only what I saw and heard on that decisive night, for though I saw much in the company of Sir John, I did not see all. This was, I daresay, the most far-reaching and ambitious undertaking ever attempted by the magistrate and his Bow Street Runners. In fact, so bold was it that the assistance of both the Army and the Coast Guard was required.

As Sir John explained his plan to the listening constables at the start of the evening, it was necessary to divide his force into three much smaller groups. There had to be Bow Street Runners at the residence of Lord Mansfield in Bloomsbury Square, at the Zondervan house in St. James Street, and at the dock in Bermondsey, where a Dutch ship by the name Dingendam prepared for departure — and all parts of the divided force had to be in place more or less simultaneously.

“It would not do,” Sir John explained, “if one or more should escape our net and run to tell his fellows at another location before our net has closed upon them. Now, you all have timepieces, do you not?”

There was a general sound of assent throughout the room in response to his question. Perhaps only I was without one of my own.

“Be in place by eight. Wait in concealment until you have action from the two houses of the sort I have described. Those of you who are assigned to the dock in Southwark, simply wait, but if they should try to take the tide and slip out, stop them. You may not be able to do that, but if you can’t, the final move will be out of our hands. Mr. Bailey will be in charge of the Bermondsey group, and he will make all decisions of that sort. If you have questions, ask them quickly and ask them now.”

There were a few. The most fateful of them came from Mr. Bailey himself: “Just how much force are we permitted to use, sir?”