Bruce Alexander - The Color of Death

Black Jack Bilbo they called him, partly in respect of the dark beard he wore, though perhaps also for the dark moods which came upon him all of a sudden. Now, with his thick legs planted wide and his fists upon his hips, he appeared as a bull might, fuming and snorting, and about to charge. Just to see him in that threatening posture would have frightened most men.

Even had he been able to see him so, Sir John, of course, would have remained unmoved; his friend did not frighten him, nor could he. Nevertheless, as a magistrate and as a man, he was ever one to admit the truth when he heard it, and after a moment’s consideration of the matter, he said in a manner of surprise, “Am I drunk? Jeremy, are you here? Would you say that I am drunk?”

“I fear so,” said I.

“You,” said Mr. Bilbo, “are disgustingly drunk. Would you wish to go home in such a state?”

He thought upon that for a good long while. For a moment, I thought he might have drifted off to sleep. But no. “P’raps not. S’pose I’ll stay. But you Jeremy, you go home and tell Kate where I be when she wakes. S’clear?”

“Most clear, Sir John.”

“S’good. Now I think I’ll sleep.” Which he did — off in an instant.

Black Jack Bilbo assured Mr. Donnelly that Sir John would be well cared for. He then offered us a return to our separate abodes in his coach. We gladly accepted and rode in style to the humbler streets surrounding Covent Garden. After I had returned the brace of pistols to Mr. Baker and told him of the evening’s events, I struggled up the stairs to the kitchen — but I got no farther than that. Having settled down to the table with a glass of milk and a chunk of bread, I thought to satisfy the raging hunger that had attacked me of a sudden. Next morning Annie found me asleep at the table, the bread half eaten and the milk half drunk.

First Annie, and then Clarissa, tried to rouse me — yet without success. Only Lady Fielding, when she woke to find herself alone in bed and saw I had returned without Sir John, managed to separate me from the arms of Morpheus, though it was not easy.

She shouted at me: “Jeremy! Jeremy! You must tell me what has happened!”

She pummeled me with her fists. “Get up! Wake up, you wicked boy! What have you done with my Jack?”

That, I think, was what brought me to my senses. It was not the screams in my ear, nor was it even the blows she rained upon my head and shoulders; but to hear myself so unjustly accused by one so close to me — that demanded immediate redress. What had I done with her Jack? What indeed!

Jumping to my feet, I defended myself vigorously. “Lady Fielding,” said I, “if he is your Jack, he is also mine. I have done naught with him. What was done last night was done to him by an armed assailant. In short, Sir John was shot at close range and wounded.”

“Shot!” exclaimed Lady Fielding. “Wounded?”

Annie and Clarissa, who stood behind her, echoed her concern.

I then told them in detail all that had happened, nor did I, in the telling, scant my efforts to defend him and see him safe to Black Jack Bilbo’s. I did also quote Mr. Donnelly on the extent of Sir John’s wounding, “serious enough, though by no means mortal.”

“Oh, thank God,” said Lady Fielding.

“He will require care,” said I. “His dressing must be changed each day.”

“Oh, we shall see to it,” said she. Then, looking behind her for confirmation, she added, “Won’t we, ladies?”

“Of course,” said Annie.

“You may be sure of it,” said Clarissa.

And so it was soon settled: All three would travel with me to Mr. Bilbo’s residence after breakfast — Lady Fielding and Clarissa to check upon Sir John’s condition, and Annie to her daily reading lesson with Mr. Burnham. (Our cook had now had near two years of instruction in letters; and as she was bright and eager to learn, she could now read and comprehend all but texts so dense they would give a challenge to all but Oxford scholars.) And I? Well, I would naturally do whatever Sir John asked of me to help keep alive the investigation begun the night before. He would also surely want me to take a letter asking that for the foreseeable future all cases ordinarily tried by the Bow Street Court be brought instead before the magistrate for Outer London and its environs, Saunders Welch. Mr. Welch might complain bitterly, but I could see no other way to handle it.

Breakfast was quite generous, though not as leisurely, as the day before. Even so, it was near nine before Lady Fielding and the other “ladies” (as she called them) had reached that stage of readiness when a hackney might be summoned and set to wait at the door for them. And so it fell to me to go down to fetch the coach.

Yet it happened that I was stopped on my way by Mr. Marsden, the court clerk, who sought to know something of Sir John’s condition. I spoke reassuringly and again quoted Mr. Donnelly — serious but not mortal.

“Constable Brede brought the news,” said Mr. Marsden. “I was quite overcome, I was, when I heard the news. I been workin’ for the gent near twenty years now, and I’ve seen him in some tight places, but he never took a bullet before.”

To hear such made me most uncomfortable. After all, had I not been Sir John’s guardian? Was he not my responsibility?

“I … I’m afraid I hadn’t my pistol out quick enough. I was armed, you know. Constable Baker saw to that.”

“Oh, think not upon it, Jeremy,” said Mr. Marsden. “From what I heard from Mr. Brede, you acquitted yourself right well. Tried to push Sir John out of the line of fire, you did, and returned fire.”

“And missed!” That, reader, came not from me but from just behind me in a deeper voice which was most familiar. “Or so I heard.”

I turned round and faced him. “You heard correct, Mr. Fuller. And when I sought to pull my second pistol from its holster, he turned and ran from me.”

“As well he might. Even a blackie’s got more sense than to stand there and let you have another shot at him. He was a blackie, wasn’t he?”

“As I remember it,” said I, “yes he was.”

At that Mr. Marsden gave a long whistle. “You don’t mean it,” said he in wonder. “I’d not heard that.”

“Well, now you have,” said Mr. Fuller as he turned sharply on his heel and walked away.

Mr. Marsden stared after him, perplexed, for a long moment. Then, coming to himself, he said, “Ah, Jeremy, I almost forgot. I’ve something here for you.”

“What is that, sir?”

“It was left with me by the new fellow, Constable Patley. He’d heard about Sir John, so he thought I should give it to you instead.” So saying, he pulled a folded and somewhat wrinkled sheet of paper from his coat pocket and offered it to me. “He says it’s his report on the robbery at Lord Lilley’s residence.”

I took it from him and glanced at it. There seemed little for me there, and so I tucked it away. “I’ll look at it later,” said I.

“I got little from it for the file,” said Mr. Marsden. “A name, and not much more.”

“I’ll read it to Sir John when he’s ready for it. But right now I’d better find a hackney. We’re off to see him at Black Jack Bilbo’s.”

Then, with a wave, I left him and proceeded out the door to Bow Street.

It was Mr. Burnham who answered my knock upon the door to Mr. Bilbo’s residence. My first glimpse of him told me that though he had been up quite as late as I, he appeared to be far better rested. Smiling, he threw the door wide and beheld the four of us standing on the porch. When his eye fixed upon Lady Fielding, the smile vanished from his face and was replaced by a look of alarm. And it seemed to me that when he stepped aside to admit us, he did so only after a considerable hesitation; indeed one might say that he showed a certain reluctance in allowing us into the house at all. I could not but wonder why.