Bruce Alexander - The Color of Death

“As much as is necessary,” responded Sir John. “If there be any casualties this evening, let them not be constables. That is as clear as I can be on that question. Pistols and cutlasses. Do with them what must be done.”

It was well over an hour afterward that Sir John and I sat in the coach loaned us by Black Jack Bilbo. The coach sat some houses down from Lord Mansfield’s grand place in Bloomsbury Square. With the door to the coach open, I had a good view of the house. Mr. Rumford sat next to me, as did Constable Queenan, and across from us, altogether relaxed, sat Sir John, curled comfortably within the generous space of the coach interior. He had a smile upon his face. It was as if, having planned this undertaking as precisely as he had, he was certain that it had already taken place and had come to a good conclusion. Nevertheless, the event had not yet taken place, and the conclusion to which it might come was still open to doubt. All we could do was wait and see.

“Do you see anything?” asked Constable Rumford; it was, in fact, the third time that he had put that question to me.

And again I responded, “Nothing yet.”

Mr. Bilbo’s driver and footman seemed to be getting restless, as was the team of four horses. I knew those animals. They were rather high-strung. When they were in harness, they wanted to be off and running. Such inactivity as was not their lot made them fractious and nervous.

It was now well after dark, of course, and though the square was well-lit with streetlamps, there was no moon at this hour of the night. There were dark corners and spaces enough to hide a good many. I paid particular attention to those places, looking for movement. At last I saw a bit of it, as a figure in black emerged from a passageway which seemed to run beside the house just beyond Lord Mansfield’s. As the figure moved closer to the nearest streetlamp, I saw better; it was a woman, one wearing a voluminous skirt, a shawl, and a prim little kerchief upon her head. She looked familiar.

Of course she did! I had indeed forgotten that the last such robbery had begun with a woman seeking refuge from an attacker. That was how the robbers had cozened Arthur, Mr. Trezavant’s butler, into opening the door to them. This was doubtless the woman. Further, she looked at a distance quite like Mary Pinkham, formerly Lady Lilley’s personal maid. I had come to suspect that she had played this role earlier. She looked the street up and down, paying little mind to Mr. Bilbo’s coach, for the driver had pulled up in such a way that it faced away from her; in appearance, it seemed simply to be waiting for a passenger to emerge from the house. Having satisfied herself, the woman removed her shawl and waved it several times in the direction of Great Russell Street. From where I sat, it was impossible to see who or what she waved at without dismounting from the coach. I had no intention of doing that.

Before I saw their wagon, I heard the sound of horses’ hooves and the squeak of the wheels. Then at last it appeared. The wagon was an unusual covered sort, so that quite a number of men could be carried in back without being seen.

“They’re here,” said I very quietly.

Constable Queenan shuffled and stamped, collecting himself, and was near out of the coach before Constable Rumford grabbed him and pulled him back.

“Don’t jump out just yet,” said he to him. “They’re not supposed to know we’re here.”

“Oh … oh yes, sorry,” said Mr. Queenan.

“The idea,” said Sir John, “is to catch them between you two on the outside and Mr. Perkins and Mr. Brede on the inside. You see the sense of that, don’t you, Mr. Queenan?”

“Yes sir, I do sir.”

“Just be careful not to shoot or slice any of our fellows, won’t you?”

“Oh, I will, sir.”

As this whispered discussion continued, I kept my eyes upon the odd-looking wagon as it pulled up before Lord Mansfield’s residence. Five men jumped out the back, well-armed, dressed in black, and all likely wearing black face paint as well. One, whom I took to be the leader, held a hurried conversation with the woman — Mistress Pink-ham? They parted, nodding in seeming agreement, and the leader beckoned the others to follow.

“They’re about to go inside,” said I, sotto voce.

Once more, Constable Queenan shifted his feet nervously.

“How many are there?” Constable Rumford asked.

“Five of them,” said I.

I could see her talking through the door. Was she weeping? Could Pinkham have done that? Whoever she was, she was quite an actress. The robbers were lined up behind her on either side of the door; they leaned forward in their eagerness to be inside.

Then, of a sudden, the door came open just a bit. The woman remained a moment, but was swept aside in the concerted dash of her five companions. The door slammed shut behind them, and she went to the wagon.

“They’re in,” said I, excitedly, all but shouting it.

“All right, gentlemen, take your places before Lord Mansfield’s door.”

There was a great scramble to leave the coach. I threw open the door on my side and jumped out to allow Constable Rumford an easy passage to the pavement. Constable Queenan was already out and running for the wagon, a pistol in his hand. Rumford took a place directly before Lord Mansfield’s door. While standing on the walkway, I had a better view of the situation, and saw a flaw that had developed in the plan due to the positioning of the robbers’ wagon. It had pulled up a bit shy of the door of the house, thereby making it quite impossible for Queenan to cover both the door and the wagon at the same time.

“Sir John,” said I, leaning back into the coach, “I see something that must be done! Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”

Running to relieve Mr. Queenan, I heard Sir John call after me twice, yet I continued, sure that had he eyes as I had to see things plain, he would no doubt have sent me out himself.

(Have no fear, reader, I was armed. Though I had no cutlass at my side, Mr. Baker had buckled round me a brace of pistols. He would not allow me to venture forth at night unarmed, and on that night in particular, he thought it my duty to serve as Sir John’s guard. I hoped that in lending a hand to the constables, I was not neglecting their chief.)

By the time I reached Mr. Queenan, he had ordered the driver and the woman down out of the wagon; they were slow to move, angry, desperate; they seemed ready to bolt at the first opportunity. I explained my intrusion to Queenan, and he assured me he was grateful for my aid. Then did he join Rumford at the door.

I saw that indeed I was correct: The woman in black, who had played out the drama at the door, was indeed Mistress Pinkham. Her eyes widened in recognition as I pulled out both pistols and cocked them. The driver, an old teamster, hard-faced and silent, looked to be one who had driven many an illegal mile in his life.

No more than a minute had elapsed in all this.

Shots were fired inside the house. Though they sounded no more lethal than those of a child’s pop gun, the sound of them had penetrated an oaken door: The skirmish had truly begun.

Then, just moments later, that oak door flew open, and out tumbled the robbers. There were just four of them; one of their number had fallen inside the house. And after them, in noisy pursuit, came Constable Perkins, a pistol in his hand, and a knife clenched between his teeth, and Constable Brede, waving a cutlass about, shouting, aiming his pistol in a most threatening manner at the nearest of the villains.

Reader, you cannot imagine the look of consternation upon the black-painted faces of those in that robber band when, as they emerged from the house, they beheld four pistols, loaded and cocked, aimed at their hearts by Rumford and Queenan. The trouble was, you see, that I myself did not imagine that look of consternation, I saw it. In so doing, I took my attention away from my two prisoners for no more than the length of a glance. Yet that was time enough for them to wreak havoc upon us.