Bruce Alexander - The Color of Death

First of all, I had made an error in allowing Mistress Pinkham and the driver to stand but six feet away, which was much too close. (“Jeremy,” Mr. Perkins lectured me afterward, ” you must never allow them to get that close unless you intend to shoot them on the spot” — and such was not my intention.) In that brief space of time, Pinkham leapt across that short distance, grabbed me by the back of the neck with one hand, and with the other grasped my right wrist and attempted unsuccessfully to wrestle the pistol from my hand. Unable to do more than hang on, she settled for that and hung on to me like a lamprey. And then did she begin screaming, rending the night with fearful wails.

Meantime, the driver slipped from my view and made for his seat on the wagon box, and one of the four on the steps broke away from the others and ran to follow.

What I did then, no gentleman would have done, but I was not then a gentleman, nor have I become one: I clubbed Mistress Mary Pinkham upon the head with the pistol in my free hand. I delivered a sharp whack with the barrel, which quite surprised her, but did nothing more. It took two more stiff blows and a bleeding pate to render her unconscious. She slipped with a bump down to the pavement, giving me the first full picture I had had of the situation since her assault upon me.

The driver urged the restive horses forward just as he who had leaped aboard behind him raised a pistol to shoot at us. Seeing that, I raised my own and fired at him. I did not know then whether I had hit him, but he pulled back, leaving the driver exposed. I set myself to fire again with my second pistol just as the horses pulled the wagon past me, removing the driver from my sight. But then, from behind me, was a final shot discharged. I looked round me and saw that it had come from Constable Perkins, who stood coolly, his arm still outstretched, the pistol in his hand still smoking.

We waited, holding our breath as one for a long moment as the horses plunged onward past Mr. Bilbo’s coach and toward Hart Street. We knew that if it made the turn in good order, then it was under control. If, on the other hand, it did not, then whoever held the reins was badly wounded, dead, or dying. And as one, we heaved a sigh of disappointment as it sailed round the corner like a frigate on wheels.

Though Sir John was reasonably pleased to have four of the robber band (including the now-conscious Pinkham) under guard, and a fifth wounded on Lord Mansfield’s floor, he had little time for his constables’ reports on how it had all been accomplished. I, however, did welcome Constable Rumford’s call; he had wiped the faces of the prisoners with a towel and all proved to be white, except the wounded fellow in the house. Once Sir John had me in the coach, he signaled Mr. Bilbo’s driver that it was time to move on to the next stop of our itinerary. As the coach began to roll, I was caught in the midst of reloading the pistol I had discharged. It was a ticklish job at best — to attempt it as we bumped over cobblestones and as he berated me for what he called my “childish propensity for getting in the worst sort of trouble.”

He continued: “And what good did you do? One in your charge escaped. The other — a woman, if you will! — you had to beat senseless to bring under restraint. How much help did you, in truth, provide?”

Continuing in that vein, he filled the time it took to drive from Bloomsbury Square to St. James Street — not a great distance. I made no effort to defend myself, simply let him talk on — for what, after all, could I say in my defense?

At last, as we pulled up before the Zondervan residence, I said to Sir John: “You cannot say anything to me in criticism, sir, that I have not already said to myself a dozen times over.” And indeed it was so.

(I did manage to get the pistol reloaded, however.)

As we climbed from the coach, Mr. Bilbo’s driver called down to us, asking if we would be needing him further. “We’re right close to home here,” said he.

“I know that, driver,” said Sir John, “but I fear that we have one more stop to make this evening, and that will take us all the way to Bermondsey.”

“Ah well, sir, not that we mind. We was quite entertained by that show your lads put on back in Bloomsbury.” He cackled at his little witticism. “Ain’t that so, Charlie?”

“Aw, ain’t it!” the footman agreed. “I ain’t seen such fireworks since the king’s birthday. I swear I ain’t.”

Sir John did not respond. He was not amused. Instead, he turned to me. “Well,” said he in little more than a whisper, “how does it look hereabouts?”

“What do you mean, sir?” I was honestly puzzled.

“I mean,” said he, “do you see any villains lurking about? Any of our fellows?”

“No villains, sir, but I see Constable Sheedy posted at the door of the Zondervan house.”

“Then that means they have it secured. Come along, Jeremy, take me to him.”

With that, he pawed the air with his right hand, indicating that he wished to be assisted to the door. I put my left arm out, and he placed his hand upon it. Thus we proceeded through the open gate and up two shallow stairs, where Constable Sheedy greeted us enthusiastically.

“Welcome to your new home, Sir John,” said he.

“Whatever could you mean, Mr. Sheedy?”

“I mean, sir, it’s been emptied out clean as a whistle, and it’s for you, if you want it. Whoever moves in first can claim it.”

“Hmmm,” said Sir John, giving a vigorous rub to his chin. “You followed my instructions, did you?”

“Oh, yes sir, we waited till that black-faced crew was out of the house and away in that wagon.”

“And you waited till Zondervan had left, as well?”

“The big, tall Dutchman? Oh yes, sir, but that was earlier. His coach pulled up at the door, and he come out, and without a word to the driver or the footman, he got in and they took off — like it was all worked out beforehand.”

“I’m sure it was,” said Sir John. “But tell me, did Constable Patley follow close behind?”

“Oh, yes sir, just like he was supposed to. I don’t know where he got his horse, but he sure knew how to ride it.”

I was quite baffled by this. I had, of course, noticed that Mr. Patley was absent from the assembly of the Bow Street Runners in the magistrate’s chambers, just as constables Perkins and Brede were; but I half-suspected that he had gone over to the other side, for I was sure that it was Patley s voice I had heard during my last visit to this house. Could he have been a turncoat, a spy for the Dutchman? Could such things be?

“He got his horse, Mr. Sheedy, at the same place we got our coach — on loan from Mr. John Bilbo, down the street a few houses. But is that the full schedule of events?”

“Uh, no sir, it’s not. Just before you came along, that same wagon came back, the one that left with all that black-faced crew about half an hour ago.”

“Oh? Who was driving it?”

“Not the one who drove it out of here. That one was an old fella, kind of hard-looking, if you know the sort.”

“Yes, I do, I certainly do,” said Sir John. “But the old fellow was not the driver?”

“No sir, it was a much younger one — not one of the blackies, you understand. This man was just as white as you or me.”

“And what happened? Were you at the door then? Did he see you?”

“Yes, I was at the door, sir, and he did see me. And when he did, he just whipped those horses and took right off again.”

“You’re sure he saw you, your red waistcoat? And that’s why he ran?”

(The red waistcoat, reader, was all that the Bow Street Runners had in common as a uniform.)

“As sure as I can be about anything.”