The Color of Death (27 page)

“You mean little Crocker, the chambermaid?” he asked eagerly. “What did he say? “

“That, sir, is none of your affair,” said I, drawing myself up and looking him coldly in the eye. “And I must say, Mr. Collier, I wonder at your intense curiosity in this matter, seeing that you were hardly even acquainted with Arthur Robb.”

“Oh … well, I did know him, you see … in a way. I’d seen him every day … spoken … “

“Goodbye to you,” said I to him, and so saying, I grasped the large brass handle and heaved open the door. I did not hear it close behind me, though I’m sure it did.

There was a considerable crowd in court that day. It was unusually large for the magistrate’s court, though the number assembled would not in any way have compared with the crowds in attendance in any of the courtrooms at Old Bailey.

In addition to the “regulars” — drabs, women of the street, porters, and layabouts who dropped by Bow Street for their midday’s entertainment — there were many more who had come because it was rumored that an arrest had been made in what were then popularly called “the St. James robberies.” Some had even heard that the robber in question was a “proper blackie”; they wanted an early look at him before he was sent on to Old Bailey and given his ticket to the crap merchant.

Because so many had come thus to gawk at Mr. Burnham, they grew restive as Sir John heard a pair of lesser matters that had been brought before the magistrate’s court in search of settlement. They were of the usual sort: two Covent Garden green merchants who claimed the same choice stall (one of them, it turned out, had simply arrived earlier one morning and claimed the spot as squatter’s privilege). The second matter, in its own way just as frivolous, turned upon the discovery in the street of a deal of money by two men who purported to be friends; both claimed to have spied the sack of gold first and fell into a brawl over it; this attracted another, a merchant, who claimed to be the true owner of the sack of money (Sir John awarded the sack to the third man after the latter had correctly given the exact amount therein, but the magistrate then instructed him to given a guinea to each of the other two men in reward for having discovered the fortune in the street).

As they shuffled off, Sir John turned to Mr. Marsden and instructed him to bring on the next case and have the prisoner brought forth.

That Mr. Marsden did, calling out Robert Burnham by name, and turning to the door through which he would be brought by Mr. Fuller. But when the door opened, a great noise was heard from the crowd, for Mr. Fuller herded in not one prisoner, but four. Each of the four was of the same brown hue; each was dressed similarly and was about the same height; and each wore hand irons.

They were directed to the bench off to the right of Sir John where they remained standing.

Sir John spoke out in a voice deep and solemn: “Mr. Burnham, you have been accused of taking active part in the robbery by force and violence of the Trezavant residence in Little Jermyn Street in the city of Westminster three evenings past. How say you, sir — guilty or not guilty?”

Then came a most remarkable occurrence: In response to Sir John’s question, all four men spoke together as with one voice, “Not guilty.”

They did then sit down upon the bench and listen as Mr. Marsden read forth a description of the robbery, complete with a list of the goods taken — paintings and furniture, table silver, and various objects made of gold. Appended to this was a description of the “apoplectic disorder” of Mr. Arthur Robb, which was occasioned by the robbery and caused his eventual demise a day later in St. Bartholomew’s Hospital.

Though seated, the four men gave all this their full attention. It was while they were thus occupied that I, looking upon them, was able to identify two of the four. At the far end I recognized Mr. Burnham; and at the nearest was none other than Dr. Johnson’s young charge, Frank Barber. But who the two men were between them, I could not say, though there was something about each which did seem familiar.

Once Mr. Marsden had done, Sir John intoned (again most solemnly): “We have a witness. He is Mr. Thomas Trezavant. Come forward please, sir.”

Thus invited, Mr. Trezavant rose from his place in the front row of benches and moved forward as swiftly and resolutely as his great bulk would allow. When he halted, he was directly in front of the magistrate, with Mr. Burnham and his companions a good fifteen feet or more off to his right.

“Will you tell us, Mr. Trezavant,” said Sir John, “what you saw on the evening that your residence was robbed in the manner just described by Mr. Marsden?”

“That I shall and gladly, but first let me congratulate you, sir. I thought you had but one of this black-faced crew in captivity, but I see that you have captured all of them.”

“That’s as may be,” said Sir John. “Or perhaps better said, it is neither here nor there, for the task I put before you is to describe what you yourself saw and heard on the evening of the great robbery.”

And that Mr. Trezavant attempted to do, yet he lapsed often into hearsay and surmise. Sir John was forced a number of times to remind him of his injunction to report only what had personally been seen or heard.

“I begin to suspect,” said the magistrate, “that you were safely sequestered in your study during the entire event.”

“Not so, sir. I may have been made a prisoner in my own study, but I was hardly ‘safe,’ as you assert.”

“Oh? What then?”

“I was tortured.”

“Yes, I recall you said something about that. In what way were you tortured? And to what purpose?”

“Well … they came blustering into my study without so much as knocking. There were but two of them, but frightening they were, and of fearful countenance. They took me quite by surprise.”

“Let me interrupt to ask you, sir, were you aware before their appearance that your house had been invaded, so to speak, by this robber band?”

“Uh, no sir, I was not.”

“How did they know to find you there?”

“That I cannot say. They seemed, indeed, to know their way about the house. Perhaps one of the servants directed them to me.”

“Do you know which one it was? “

“No, but I have my suspicions.”

“Keep them to yourself. A magistrate’s court is no place to air suspicions.” Sir John rubbed his chin in thought, producing a scowl of vague disapproval. “Let us get back to this matter of torture,” said he. “What did they wish to know?”

“The location of my wife’s jewels.”

“And how did they go about torturing you, Mr. Trezavant?”

“Well …” He hesitated, looking about the courtroom as if in a state of acute discomfort. ‘They described to me their intentions.”

A low hum of comment swept through the attending crowd. Yet Sir John made no effort to quiet them, so eager was he to understand properly what he had just heard.

“They described to you their intentions?” he repeated. “Was that … all?”

“Yes,” said he, “but I have a most vivid imagination.”

The hum in the courtroom rose to a pitch, then exploded into a great gale of laughter. Though Sir John himself smiled broadly at Mr. Trezavant’s confession, he must have thought that such unbridled hilarity at the expense of the witness was altogether improper, for he thumped loudly with the mallet which served him for a gavel and called loudly for order.

But damage had been done. Mr. Trezavant turned round and faced the courtroom — and quite charged with indignation was he.

“You would not think it amusing,” he shouted out, “if you were to hear in precise detail the steps those black villains meant to take in castrating you — now would you? “

The laughter ceased abruptly, except for a few titters and giggles heard from the females at the back of the large room; they, too, quietened as Sir John beat louder still upon the table before him.

“I’m sure we would not think it in the least bit amusing,” said he when all was quiet. “I take it, Mr. Trezavant, that you told the robbers what they wished to know.”

“No sir, I referred them to one of the servants who had greater knowledge of such matters than I. As it happened, my wife had taken her jewels with her on a visit to her father in Sussex.”

“So you might have been gelded to no purpose whatever.”

“I had not thought of it quite that way.”

“Indeed, sir, you might prefer not to. But let us go now direct to the matter at hand, shall we? You indicated earlier that the man who made those threats to you, who was the leader of the robber band, is in fact here in this courtroom. Is that not so?”

“It is, Sir John.” Mr. Trezavant seemed to speak with a confidence that was of a sudden renewed.

“Do you see him here now? You have my word, sir, that he is one of the four you noticed earlier. Can you pick him out from the rest?” He gestured toward the four. “Stand, please, all of you.”

“I … I am confident that I can identify him.”

“Very well, take your time.”

He not only took his time, he also took it upon himself to move much closer to the four. Had it been within his power to walk softly, he might have accomplished his purpose — due, that is, to Sir John’s blindness. Nevertheless, at a good twenty stone, he would have been utterly incapable of tiptoeing about. An individual large as Mr. Trezavant could only crash about in one compass direction or another.

Thus it was that the witness had not got far ere he was called back by Sir John, who advised him to return to his place.

The witness objected: “How am I to see them clear if not close up?”

“Sir,” said the magistrate, “I have it on good authority that on the night in question, you could not see clear at all because of your inebriated state. Since it would be time-consuming and inappropriate to put you again in that state, let distance serve in its stead.”

Glowering, Mr. Trezavant returned to the point from which he had started. Though he said nothing more about the matter, it was evident that so far as he was concerned, the matter was not settled.

He did not take long to make his choice. If his confidence had been shaken, there was no sign of it as he stood studying the four men, his right hand at his jowls, his left folded across his great belly.

“It is he who stands second from the right,” said he with great certainty.

“That, of course, means little to me,” said Sir John. “Since my affliction prevents me from viewing the man you have identified as the leader of the robbers, perhaps he might step forward and give his name.”

The man chosen by Mr. Trezavant did as he had been told. “My name,” said he, “is Philip Rumford, sir, as you should well know.”

“Oh? And why would I know that?”

“Because, sir, you employ me as a constable.”

“Ah yes, so I do. Mr. Marsden, will you fetch forth the towel that you brought into court today against such an eventuality?”

The clerk rose from his place at the table next to Sir John with a smile upon his face. In his hand was indeed a towel, which he must have had across his lap during this court session. He simply went to Mr. Rumford and handed it to him.

Mr. Rumford, for his part, took it from him and began rubbing at his face. “Oohs” and “ahhs” of wonder were heard from those in the crowded courtroom, for as he did so, the color of his skin changed from black (or at least the shade of brown that is commonly called that) to white (or the shade of pale yellowish pink that is so called). I knew Constable Rumford, of course, though not so well as some of the rest. He dearly loved a good joke, and one such as this would have greatly pleased him. When he had completed the work of wiping himself clean, the assemblage broke into applause. In response, he bowed left, right, and center.

“All applause is due Mr. Falder who applies cosmetics and paint at Drury Lane,” he declared. “He did us up right fair, didn’t he, Ben?”

He tossed the towel to him who had stood at his right. And as that one began to change the color of his skin, I saw to my astonishment that the man who caught the towel was none other than Benjamin Bailey, captain of the Bow Street Runners and my close companion for all my years in London. It was amazing to me, as it must also have been to many others in the courtroom, how completely a change of skin color disguised one.

Sir John had been quite lax up to that moment. He had allowed laughter and applause from the benches and permitted saucy comments from Constable Rumford. But the time had come for him to put an end to such frivolity. He beat without mercy upon the table at which he sat and called for “Order! Order!” and at last he was given what he sought: The room went still, and he cleared his throat and made ready to speak.

Before he could do that, however, Mr. Trezavant bellowed forth: “Sir John, I believe you tricked me.”

“Nothing of the kind, sir. The man you originally pointed out and declared to be leader of those who robbed your residence is here, right enough. Mr. Burnham, step forward and identify yourself.”

That Mr. Burnham did, though somewhat reluctantly (or so it seemed to me); he regarded Mr. Trezavant suspiciously, feeling perhaps that he still had something to fear from him; and if that were what he thought, then he may indeed have been right.

“I identified him correct one time, and one time is all that should be necessary. Send that man on to Old Bailey. I would see him hang yet on Tyburn Hill.”

“I cannot do that and would not,” said Sir John. “Mr. Burnham is now a free man. He is alibi for the entire evening in which you were robbed. He may walk from this court whenever he chooses to do so.”

“In that case, we have nothing more to discuss.”

And having said as much, Mr. Trezavant went stamping out of the Bow Street Court — which, technically, put him in contempt.

There was great rejoicing in Sir John’s chambers following that session of his court. Dido and her cousin, Elizabeth, had waited therein for word of the outcome. (It would have been unseemly for them to have appeared in a place so rowdy, so
public
as the Bow Street Court.) When it came — brought to them by Frank Barber, who ran ahead to tell — they began dancing about in a state of absolute jubilation. That, in any case, is how it seemed when I entered behind Sir John and Mr. Burnham. The magistrate smiled indulgently at the display of high spirits; Mr. Burnham, however, maintained the same somber expression he wore but a short time past in the courtroom when he stepped forward and identified himself to Mr. Trezavant. No doubt he was happy — or more than happy — to have the threat of the hangman’s noose removed. Nevertheless, he seemed to have learned a sobering lesson: that for a black man, no matter how comfortably situated, London was a far more dangerous place than he might ever have previously supposed.

Though I had not been present at their reconciliation, it was evident that Mr. Burnham had forgiven Frank Barber (though what had he to forgive?) for taking the initiative and informing Dido of the terrible predicament that those frequent visits to her had put her suitor in. She and her cousin had then acted to rescue him from that predicament. They were sorely disappointed, however, when they learned that the statements which had been prepared by them with the help of Sir John had not been read out by him in open court.

“There was no need,” said he to them, “for by the time they were pertinent, that fool, Trezavant, had already mistakenly identified Constable Rumford as leader of that band of thieves. When I introduced Mr. Burnham to him as the man he had earlier accused, I was able to say, thanks to you both, that he is alibi for the entire evening in which the Trezavant residence was robbed.”

“But couldn’t you have proven his innocence by reading our declarations aloud to one and all?” asked Dido.

“Yes,” said Elizabeth, “couldn’t you? Such a shame not to.”

“Oh, I suppose I could have read them out, but I fear Lord Mansfield would not approve the association of your two names with this matter, most specially now as he sits in judgment on this Somerset case.”

With a sigh, Dido agreed: “I fear you are correct, Sir John.” And then to Elizabeth: “I fear also, coz, that we must be on our way back to Kenwood.”

“Ah yes, Uncle will need his coach.”

The two, who seemed for all the world like visitors from some distant star, called out their goodbyes and farewells, then poised for their flight back through the ether.

“But where is Robert?” asked Dido of the other, as she looked round the room.

“Oh, there he is! See him? Sulking in the corner?”

They ran to Mr. Burnham, who, though not truly sulking, might indeed have looked a bit happier, considering the circumstances.

“Robert!” said Dido. “We have saved you from the hangman. Can you not at least give us a smile and a sweet farewell?”

Though it seemed to take a bit of effort, he managed to provide both. Encouraged, Dido went up on her tiptoes (for Mr. Burnham was quite tall and she was not) and gave him a buss upon the cheek. Then did she and her cousin hasten to the door to the long corridor which led to the street. Yet there, blocking their way, stood Annie and Clarissa. Annie, wide-eyed, looked astonished, hurt, completely crushed. Clarissa simply looked sad. They had seen all. I felt like calling out to them, “Be not so downcast. The cousins may be beautifully dressed, pert, and (within limits) clever, but they are no more than silly girls.” Yet even as I imagined that, it did occur to me that it was only a short time ago that I had thought the same of Annie and Clarissa. Station mattered little: There was no end to silliness among girls of that age.

It was not long after their departure that the impromptu celebration in Sir John’s chambers came to an end. Frank Barber and Robert Burnham left Number 4 Bow Street together, giving encouraging evidence that all was once again well between them. That left me alone with Sir John and gave me the first opportunity I had had to present my report to him. I reminded him of this.

“Yes, yes, by all means, let us sit down that I may better give it my attention.”

“You have read the letter from Mr. Humber, I take it?” I posed it as a question to Sir John, hoping to learn something of its contents.

“Oh certainly,” said he. “Clarissa read it me as soon as you set off for Mr. Trezavant’s. No doubt you are curious as to what it said. Well, it was precisely the sort of letter one would expect from him — full of facts about ships — departure dates, cargoes, that sort of thing. Indeed, Jeremy, I believe I should perish of ennui if my life were taken up with such tedious matters.”

“When I visited him earlier,” said I, “he indicated that we might well be suspicious if a ship were insured considerably beyond the value of the vessel and its stated cargo. Was any such discrepancy discovered?”

Sir John did not immediately respond. He pouched his cheeks and hunched his shoulders in such a way that he actually appeared to be pouting — though of course I discounted that possibility immediately.

“Mmm … well, he mentioned something about that,” said he. “But you, Jeremy, I believe you said that you had information from Mr. Martinez that you thought quite important.”

“Well, yes I do have something.”

“Tell it to me then, lad. I am eager to hear.”

It was clear to me that I would hear no more from Sir John regarding Mr. Humber’s letter. And so, for the time being, I put it from my mind and concentrated upon the task of remembering in detail my conversation earlier that day with Moses Martinez. Considering that so much had happened during the intervening hours, I believe I gave a good account of my questions and his answers — up to a point. I reached that point when I repeated to Sir John the reply Mr. Martinez had given me when I asked him the name of the villainous Dutchman. Then did Sir John become the interrogator and I his respondent.

First he asked me to repeat what Mr. Martinez had told me.

“He said, sir, ‘Oh, I could not tell you that.’ “

“But why? What reason did he give for withholding the name?”

“Well, I asked him a number of things. Did he fear retribution? He said he did not. Did he not trust you or me to keep the name secret? He said that he trusted both of us. But I persisted, and he explained at last that it was his religion prevented him.”

“His
religion!
Sir John seemed truly vexed. “What could he have meant by that? “

“He cited the ninth of the Ten Commandments. And he said that we should understand his reluctance, for Christians and Jews alike did honor the Ten.”

“Let me see,” said he, “which is the ninth?” And having put the question to himself, he began marking them off on his fingers. ” ‘No other gods before me’ — that is the first. ‘No graven image’ is the second.” And so on. He mumbled on until he came to the ninth, and then did he speak forth in full voice: “Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor? What could he mean by that? I would not have him bear false witness against anyone, certainly not his neighbor.”

“Well, sir, this is how he explained it,” said I. “In some way, this had been extended to mean that we ought also to say of someone else only what we know from experience to be the truth — what we ourselves have seen; what we may have heard from the person in question. Since he could not give any such guarantee, he declined to name the individual.”

“Hmmm. Did he say who it was gave such a broad interpretation to the ninth? Not that it matters greatly.”

“No … simply … well, he used a phrase. What was it? Something to do with ‘commentary.’ ‘According to commentary,’ it may have been.”

Sir John gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Simply a matter of Jewish scruples, I suppose,” said he. He thought a moment thereon, then did he surprise me with a chuckle. “Or perhaps God is a better lawyer than ever I had thought. What this amounts to, Jeremy, is a prohibition against speaking hearsay. As a magistrate I must accept that, nor could I contemn Mr. Martinez for abiding by this higher standard.”

“That may be,” said I to him. “Nevertheless, the man he described fitted to the life one on the periphery of this case. I fear I take it ill that he refused to supply a name.”

“Do you mean it?” said Sir John. “To the life, you say?”

“Well, perhaps I overstated a bit. I have never actually seen the individual in question.”

“Then how can you make such a claim? In point of fact, if you reported correctly, Mr. Martinez gave no physical description of the man at all. What is the name of your fellow?”

“Zondervan,” said I. “What his Christian name is I do not know.”

“Oh?” Just that, yet I could tell that the name had struck a chord of some sort. “And what makes you think that the man described by Mr. Martinez is this — what is his name? — Zondervan — is that it?”

“Yes, Zondervan. Well, first of all, he is Dutch. And he is a merchant.”

“So are many here in London.”

“True enough, but he lives in St. James Street, between the residences of Lord Lilley and Mr. Bilbo.”

“Mere coincidence, surely.”

“Perhaps, but when Mr. Collier, the butler who had been discharged by Lord Lilley, sought a place to shelter himself, he went direct to the Zondervan residence. And I suspect that Mistress Pinkham, who was herself discharged for divulging the hiding place of Lady Lilley s jewels, has taken shelter there, too.”

“But you’re not sure of that?”

“Well… no.”

“Mistress Pinkham is not, in any case, a recent addition to the household staff of Lord Mansfield?”

“No sir, I asked after her, and found she was quite unknown there.”

He shrugged. “Who knows where these young women go? No doubt she had a better offer elsewhere. But no, Jeremy, this man, Zondervan, does not — ”

“But sir,” said I, interrupting in a most insistent manner, “he has in his residence a gallery in which many pictures hang — paintings which I am sure are of great value.”

“And what makes you sure of that?”

“That they are kept under lock and key.”

“How is it you know all this?”

“I visited it the day I took Mr. Collier to Field Lane to tour the pawnshops. He had been allowed inside that he might view Mr. Zondervan s collection. He is a great fancier of such pictures and gave me to understand that these were of great worth.”

“Hmmm, well, that is certainly more interesting. Paintings have also been stolen. But I hardly think that the fact this Dutchman has in his possession a collection of valuable pictures would be reason enough to seek a warrant giving us leave to invade his premises and poke around in search of stolen goods. Nevertheless, all this is of interest, as I said. We might try to learn more about this fellow.”

There was then silence from him, the sort of silence that told me that my time with him had run out. Reluctantly, I rose to my feet and made ready to leave. Yet he had something more to say.

“By the bye, Jeremy, I hope you have not forgotten that it is this night that Mr. Johnson visits us to take dinner at our table.”

“Oh indeed not, Sir John.” (But indeed, reader, I had forgotten.)

“Wear your best. Shave yourself, if need be.” He then tested his own chin and jowls. “And yes,” said he, “I should like you to shave me, as well. Ah, but hold on, lad. You must tell Annie that there will be one more guest for dinner.”

“Oh? And who will that be, Sir John?”

“Why, none other than Mr. Burnham,” said he. “During those minutes following today’s session, I offered him an invitation. I meant it in apology for our treatment of him. And frankly, I believe he would have declined had I not mentioned that Johnson would also be present. That dictionary of Johnson’s has made a great celebrity of him. His opinion is sought on every subject. Before, he was naught but a writer — and I needn’t tell you in what low esteem they are held.”

I felt no necessity to comment upon that. Nevertheless, I had need to pass on to Sir John one last bit of intelligence. And so I turned, halfway to the door, and spoke quickly to him: “One last matter, sir. It has to do with the letter to Lord Mansfield which you charged me to deliver.”

“Yes, of course, and did you deliver it?”

“I did,” said I, “direct to him.”

“And what did he say in response?”

“He said, and I quote, ‘Yes, emphatically yes.’ “

“Very good,” said Sir John. “That is precisely the response I expected.”

Much transpired between that moment and the time, some hours later, when we were all situated round the table. It was, however, the sort of

mundane work of preparation that deserves no place in a narrative of this sort. Let it stand that all was done as efficiently and gracefully by us three as a dozen or so might have done in one of the grand houses in St. James. And let it be noted, too, that our captain in this endeavor was our dear Annie. No longer the silly girl she had been, talking of suicide or following her loved one into exile, she was the very model of cool mastery; there could be no doubt when the food was brought to the table that she had the situation fully under control. Which is to say, not only Sir John and Lady Katherine, but also Mr. Burnham and Mr. Johnson were so well-pleased with the roast of beef when it was served that they paid it the supreme compliment of silence as they swiftly devoured the first serving.