Bruce Alexander - The Color of Death

“I did?”

“Certainly. Do you recall when you went off to fetch Mr. Donnelly to look at the girl’s body out in back of Trezavant’s?”

“Yes, of course I do. I had to wait, for he had been at a dinner parry at Lord Mansfield’s home.” Then, remembering, I added excitedly: “Mr. Zondervan was there, too. In fact, he drove Mr. Donnelly home in his coach. When I told you about it the next day, you became quite interested and sent me to invite him here for a talk.”

“Ah yes, and while you were there, you noted the intense activity in the house, which seemed to you quite like preparations to move the household — and householder. And you thought the move would be very soon, that very evening perhaps. You also heard Mr. Patley somewhere in the house, and that frighted me a bit. But he, by the bye, had confirmed your suspicions and believed that an early departure was planned.”

“Why ‘early,’ Sir John?” I asked.

“Well, yes, why indeed? Because, you see, that letter you brought me from Mr. Humber contained some very interesting information. First of all, it told me that there was indeed a ship which seemed too heavily insured for the cargo that it carried — at least that which was listed upon its manifest. It was a ship of Dutch registry, the Dingendam, which was to sail on the 21st for some part in the North American colonies — Boston, I believe it was.” He smiled broadly just then. “That’s right, Jeremy, that is today’s date. In other words, taking the tide, as they did last night, put them out of port a day earlier than the time of departure they had registered with the London port authority. Oh, and yes, perhaps most interesting of all, the owner of the Dingendam was listed as a Mr. Hans Zondervan. That confirmed your guess from Mr. Martinez’s clews — a very clever guess, I might add.

“Let me see, now, where was I? Ah yes, when Zondervan arrived — you know, I never did find out how you persuaded him to come.”

“I described you to him as a rather pathetic “sort, one who would be happy to have a visit from one in the great world.”

“Excellent! We were then wonderfully in harmony,” said he, “for I, in my role as an eccentric old codger, drew from him the names of a few of those in the great world at whose grand houses he had dined — how he was received with his silly Dutch tales, et cetera. And among those who entertained him thus were Lord Lilley and our friend, the coroner, Mr. Trezavant. In other words, he had scouted these houses and decided what they might have that would be worth stealing. Since he had just visited Lord Mansfield and charmed the great company present, and since both you and Mr. Patley agreed that Zondervan was preparing to leave a day earlier than we had been advised, I decided that the raid upon the home of the Lord Chief Justice had to be that very evening — and it was.”

This was, I admitted to myself, a very full accounting. And it was apparent that indeed I had played an important part in the gathering of information, but nevertheless …

“Now, that is but one instance. There were others,” said Sir John. “Do you wish to hear more?”

“Well … no,” said I hesitantly. “I wonder only why you did not apprise me of the importance of these bits of information when I brought them to you? In short, why did you not keep me better informed?”

He fell into a troubled silence. I could tell that there was something he wished to say, but could not quite put into words. Yet I would hear it from him, and so I pressed him on the matter.

“Do you not trust me, sir, to keep your confidence?”

“Oh, but of course I do,” he declared hastily. “It is just… well, let me tell you a story.” Then, taking a breath, he began: “It was when I was about your age and a midshipman in the Navy. We were part of a squadron sailing about the Mediterranean showing the colors. We put in at Naples which, traditionally, has been a friend to England. To demonstrate this, the Duke of Naples sent to us a troop of entertainers who performed right there aboard ship. There were acrobats and jugglers, all of them most expert in their skills. Yet none could be called a true artist, except for one: a magician. Now, I know not why it should be — perhaps it may have something to do with the Neapolitans’ talent for thievery — but it is said that they produce the very best magicians in the world, though one does hear tales of great wonders done in the Orient. I am well aware that there is no such thing as true magic. It is all illusion and sleight of hand. Still, when it is done with great knowledge, talent, and ability, it does approach true artistry. And the magician who entertained us that day in Naples possessed all those qualities: He was a true artist. He spoke not a word during his performance, which made it all the more mysterious. The man may have been mute for all I know. Yet I had no trouble understanding when he pointed to me, seated in the front row, and beckoned me up there beside him before them all, captain and crew. He brought forth a broad-brimmed hat and gestured that I might put it on. That I did, and found it was much too large. It covered my eyes completely, and there was much jollity at my expense, but I minded not a whit, for it was just such a happy occasion. In any case, he showed me and showed all the rest that apart from its size, it was a perfectly ordinary hat. Then, sent back to my seat by him, I sat and watched him do something quite marvelous. He turned the hat upside down and covered it with a cloth. Then, after making a few passes over it, he removed the cloth, reached into the hat, and pulled out … a rabbit!”

(Reader, I myself had by that time seen the same trick performed two or three times on a Sunday in Covent Garden, yet it was the first and last time Sir John had witnessed it, and even as he spoke of it, he seemed rather awestruck by the memory.)

“Jeremy,” said he, resuming upon a lighter note, “I have told you that story for a reason, for ever afterward I have attempted to astound others as that Neapolitan magus astounded me. To put it another way, I love to pull rabbits from a hat! I love to gather all the bits of information, to shift them about, reorder them, and so on until I come up with an astounding solution, the proper solution, the only solution. But to astound, I need an audience — and you, Jeremy, are my audience. If I kept you informed every step of the way, there would be no surprise, no astonishment, no rabbit out of the hat. Or far worse, if you knew all, then you might reach the solution before me; then I would be the one astounded. Not only would I then lose the pleasure of pulling the rabbit from the hat, I would also be embarrassed in the bargain.

“Then …” I hesitated, “then I would say that it is all something of a game to you. Is that not so, sir?”

He thought hard upon that and seemed about to deny the conclusion I had drawn from what he had said. In fact, he did begin to shake his head from side to side, but then he stopped, pursed his lips judiciously, and said: “Perhaps like a game, though not really quite that. Let us call it, rather, a very serious game.”

I was not altogether sure what he meant by that, but I did not think that this was the proper time to ask him. It would be best, I thought, to remove myself that I might consider the matter by myself. I rose from the chair where I had sat during our long conversation and made ready to depart. Then did one last question occur to me.

“Sir,” said I, “if Constable Patley was your spy there in the enemy camp, how did he manage to ingratiate himself to such a gang of cutthroats?” Then, remembering poor Crocker, I added, “Yes, literally that: cutthroats.”

“He did that by convincing them he would be their spy in our camp,” said he. “But it is a good deal more complicated than that, and thereby hangs a fascinating tale. You would do better to ask him yourself.”