The Color of Death (12 page)

“Yet we differed in one partic’lar,” he continued. “And that was in respect of our elders. I soon found out that if I cared to live out the length of my enlistment, it was important for me to pay attention to what those who’d been in the regiment a while might have to say, and not go trying to tell them how I thought they ought to do things. I had much to be grateful for to them.

“Now, I know you had a bad opinion of that report I wrote out on that first big robbery in St. James Street. That much I heard from that man Marsden, the magistrate’s clerk.”

Finally, reader, I could hold my tongue no longer. “Mr. Marsden had a bad opinion of it, too,” said I, “and so would Sir John have had if he had sufficient sight to read it. Well, he couldn’t have read it — none could — not the way the words were spelled. You authored something unique! It seemed another language entirely. Not to mention the near total absence of facts and details.”

“Well,” said he, “I’m working on those reports — with Mr. Bailey. He’s showing me how to write them the way Sir John wants.”

“Can he teach you how to spell correctly?” It was, I blush to say, a question intended less to elicit a reasonable response than to antagonize. And antagonize it did.

“You ain’t going to leave me alone on that, are you? You would scorn me as a man for no more than some words ain’t spelled to your liking. Well, all right, young sir, you may discover there’s more to judge a man by than that. I’m not saying I’ll be the one to teach you, but I can damn near guaranty you’ll find out from somebody sometime, and it’ll probably be sooner ‘stead of later.”

I had offended him, which was bad enough, though to make things worse, I had offended him by intention. Of a sudden I saw this, which is to say, I had a clear picture of myself as an arrogant young puppy. The picture appalled me, and I might well have set about to make amends (which would have been proper) had he not grabbed my arm and jerked me to a halt. Instinctively my arms came up, and my hands formed into fists. If it came to it, I was ready to defend myself.

But no. Mr. Patley pointed somewhat behind me and to my right. “We’re here,” said he. “This is the house.”

I turned and looked at it, frowning. Why, I knew the place, and I knew it well. I had delivered many a letter there, and even been inside a number of times. “This is the Trezavant house, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he said, “that’s the name.” It occurred to me that it might indeed have been better if Sir John had come, for Mr. Trezavant was the coroner for the city of Westminster. There were political considerations, matters of precedence, which I hardly felt competent to deal with. Nevertheless, I would deal with them as best I could.

“Come along then, Mr. Patley. Let us do what must be done.”

The door was opened to us by a big man in his shirtsleeves — a porter, no doubt, or perhaps a footman (I’ve no skill in telling them apart). In any case, we were warned by him to step carefully as we made our way inside. Immediately the door shut behind us and I saw the cause for caution.

The body of him described by Mr. Patley as having died from apoplexy or a stoppage of the heart lay on the floor of the hall just beyond the door. I was somewhat taken aback by the sight.

“The master told us not to move him until the doctor had a look at him,” said the big fellow.

“Quite,” said I. “So I take it the doctor has not yet arrived?”

“No, young sir, he ain’t.”

I knelt beside the black-clothed body and called for light. Given a single candle in a holder, I examined the face of the dead man and found that he was, as I had feared, the Trezavant butler, a sweet-natured old man who had shown me only kindness on my frequent visits to the house.

“The butler,” said I, rather superfluously.

“So it is, and a good man he was, too,” said he who had opened the door. “His heart had been giving him trouble the last year or two. I wager that’s what done him in.”

If so, a stoppage of the heart must have been more painful than ever I had supposed, for the features of his face, frozen by death, bore an expression of great pain. His had not been a peaceful passage.

I rose and handed back the candle. I inquired as to the whereabouts of Mr. Trezavant. (I was sufficiently aware of the rules of etiquette governing the situation to know that it was the master of the house to whom I must speak first.) And I was directed to his study, where I had always found him in the past. I made ready to go there, but first I addressed Mr. Patley in what I hoped would seem the proper note of polite authority: “Constable, perhaps you will find Mr. Bailey now. Tell him I am here and ready to talk with any whom he deems worth questioning.”

“Certainly,” said he — a proper response.

Assuring the porter (or again, perhaps he was a footman) that I knew the way, I set off down the hall for the study. When I arrived, I paused a moment before the door, taking time to organize my thoughts and prepare myself for what lay ahead.

I was quite unprepared for what I found beyond the door. I knocked upon it and was invited to enter. Was there something strange about the voice? The manner of speech? Perhaps, but I threw open the door and marched inside, eager to find out what I could which might aid materially in the capture of this crew of ruthless robbers.

Mr. Trezavant was at his desk, as he always seemed to be, his great weight and huge girth quite obscuring the chair upon which he sat. His head hung low, and as I came close I saw that his jaw had gone slack; his mouth hung open.

He was drunk. I had seen drunken men — and women — in sufficient numbers on the streets of London to know the look well. When he raised his eyes and regarded me, they carried a familiar dazed expression. And then the proof: Nearly, though not quite, hidden behind a considerable pile of ledgers on his desk, I spied the brandy bottle from which he had imbibed.

He squinted at me, probably seeking to fix my image in focus. “Who’reyou?” he asked at last.

“Jeremy Proctor, I came when — ”

“Oh yes, I … Now I reco’nize you. You … you … Sir John …”

“Yes sir, I am Sir John’s assistant.”

“Whar’s he?”

“I fear he was unable to come. He was wounded two nights past in the discharge of his duties. I have come in his place.”

“You?” He laughed. “You’re … you’re … but a …”

“A lad? Indeed that is true, sir, but I have been well-prepared by Sir John, and with your permission, I shall question you and members of your household staff to gather information for our investigation.”

“All I can tell you …” And at this point came the longest pause of all; near a minute passed by, perhaps more, as I waited. But eventually, my patience was rewarded. “All I can say is … they were a crew of cruel black buggers.”

“Yes sir,” said I. “I’ll make a note of that.” I could see there would be little of use that I would get from him. “But tell me, sir, is Mrs. Trezavant here? Would she be available for questioning?”

“My wife,” said he, “is where she blongs.” He seemed to feel that he had explained all.

“And where is that, sir?”

“In … at home.”

“Here?”

That seemed to anger him somewhat. He glared at me. Was he annoyed at me for asking, or at his wife for some unexplained offense?

“No … in Sussex, and she took the coach … the coach and four this morning.”

“Well, thank you, sir,” said I, backing toward the door, “I’ll not bother you further.”

“No bother … a pleasure … Always were a most p’lite lad. My best to Sir John… . Talk to anyone you like.”

I had reached the door. I felt behind my back for the doorknob. “Thank you, sir,” said I.

“I b’lieve I’ll just take a nap,” said he.

And so saying, folded his arms upon the desk and laid his great head, rather like a baby’s, down upon them.

Not waiting another moment, I made a quiet exit from the room and into the hall. And there, waiting for me, I found Mr. Benjamin Bailey who, as chief constable, directed the quotidian operations of the Bow Street Runners. Perhaps, to put it more clearly, he was regimental sergeant major to Sir John’s colonel. That arrangement seemed to satisfy him.

He walked me a bit down the empty hall to a point removed from Mr. Trezavant’s study so that we might talk more freely.

“Did you get anything from the coroner?” he asked.

“Nothing at all. He was quite besotten.”

“Drunk?”

“Completely.” I looked at him then, no doubt as hopefully as I felt. “What about the servants? Are there some worth talking to?”

“Oh, I suppose so,” said he. “Yes, you should talk to a few of them, but you’re going to find that this robbery was just like the last, except for one or two details.”

“And what are they?”

“You’ll find out, Jeremy. It wouldn’t do for me to draw conclusions for you.”

I sighed. It seemed that even my old friend, Mr. Bailey, intended to put me to the test. Ah well, I could hardly have expected it to be otherwise.

“Lead the way,” said I to him. “Find me a room, and bring them to me one at a time.” I meant that as a challenge.

The first particular in which this robbery differed from the earlier was in the crucial matter of gaining entrance. Mr. Collier, Lord Lilley’s former butler, had been duped into opening the door by an individual, evidently a black man, who told a sad tale of a terrible coach accident — and, what is more, told the tale in the tone and style of a native Londoner; there were no African inflections, not even the flat and now quite familiar accent of the North American colonies.

But there at the Trezavant residence, the butler could not tell us what was said, how it was said, nor for what reason it was decided to unlock and open the door. No, the butler could not tell us, but, as it happened, there was a witness to the event — and he could.

Mr. Bailey brought to me a John Mossman who, as it turned out, was the selfsame fellow who had admitted Mr. Patley and me to the Trezavant residence. He said that he and the butler, whose name was Arthur Robb, had been discussing in the hall what they might do with the master. There I halted him and asked what was meant by that. Why, after all, need anything be “done” with Mr. Trezavant?

“Well, the way of it was this, young sir,” said the porter. “The mas-ter’d been drinking through a good bit of the day, and quite steady after dinner. He had collapsed at his desk — quite unconscious he was. So Arthur and me, we was discussing just how we might get him up to his bed on the floor above, the master bein’ so big and all.”

He went on to explain that he was the only porter on the household staff and that those who might have helped — the footmen, the coach driver — had taken Mrs. Trezavant off to the country home in Sussex and would not return until the morrow. Arthur, he was just too old and frail to be of much use carrying a big load like that. All of which was quite interesting, and perhaps later would prove relevant, but I urged Mr. Mossman to get on with his story that I might learn how the robbers had gained entry.

“We was some distance back in the hall,” said he, “but we both heard the knockin’ on the door real plain. It was loud and you might say right frantic. So we hastened to the door, and Arthur calls out his ‘Who is there?’ — for it was well past the hour when you might open the door to anybody who knocks upon it. Then in response we heard this terrible wail, a cry for help it was, and the voice that did the crying was a woman’s voice.”

“A woman’s voice?” I exclaimed. “You’re sure of that?” “As sure as I’m here before you now. She said she’d been attacked in St. James Street, which is only a little ways over, and that she was bein’ chased. Oh, she sounded terrible frightened. Well, Arthur and me, we looked one at the other. All I could do was shrug, saying it was up to him, like. But Arthur, he didn’t give it but a moment’s thought. He was damned if he’d have some poor soul raped on our doorstep, so he starts pulling the bolts. And once that was done, he moved the door back — he couldn’t have had it open much more than an inch when it came open just like it’d been flung. It hit Arthur hard in the head, but I was behind him and managed to jump back out of the way. Then all of a sudden, there was four black men swarming through the open door with pistols and knives in their hands, and poor Arthur was reelin’ about holding his head where the door hit him. Before you knew it, he was clutchin’ at his heart and not his head, and, well, he just collapsed there by the door where you saw him. I couldn’t even ease his way down because by that time one of the blackies had a pistol stickin’ in my face.”

“Did you get a look at the woman who knocked upon the door?” He thought about that a moment, as if for the first time. “No, I can’t say I did. They hustled me downstairs to the kitchen far too quick.” “Could the woman’s voice you heard have been mimicked by a man?” “You mean makin’ his voice sound like a woman’s? No, I don’t think so. I don’t see how it could’ve been a man.”

Except for fixing the time of the assault (“Not long after ten,” said he, “but not yet half past the hour”), the porter and I had finished our business. Mr. Bailey brought into the room (barely a corner cupboard, really, beneath the stairs, and just off the kitchen) one of the maids, a sort of assistant to Mrs. Trezavant’s personal maid. She had more or less come forward as a volunteer, according to Mr. Bailey, for she wished to make a few things clear — or so she said.

“What is it you wish to make clear?” I thought it likely she sought to be interviewed purely for the attention that it would bring her. Therefore I had determined to spend as little time with her as possible.

“I wish to make clear it wasn’t me responsible for telling the robbers what happened to the lady’s jewels,” said she. A bold girl, not much more than my own age, she was attractive in a saucy way.

“If it wasn’t you,” said I, hoping to move her along, “then who was it? They’re gone, I take it.”

“It wasn’t nobody,” said she with firm conviction. “They’re gone, but wasn’t ever stolen.”

“Then who has them?”

“Mrs. Trezavant has them. I saw her take them along when she left for the country. Her maid packed the dresses and frocks, but she took the jewel case along in her own hand. I saw her take it my own self.”

This was more interesting than I had at first realized. I wondered where, with a few more questions, it might lead.

“Didn’t Mr. Trezavant see the jewel case in her hand when he bade her goodbye?”

“He never said goodbye. He just stayed where he was and sulked. See, they had a terrible row in the morning, and she was gone not much after.”

“What was the row about?”

“About money — what it always is with them. I prob’ly shouldn’t say so, but you’d hear it from one of the other servants, I’m sure.”

“Did she object that Mr. Trezavant did not give her sufficient money to run the house?”

(I was out of my element completely here, reader. I had merely heard that this was often so in marriages.)

“Oh no,” said she, plainly amused at my error. “She’s richer than he is — or her family is. She’s got money — rents and such — he can’t touch, and that drives him quite mad, it does. He wants her father to trust him with a big loan, but she won’t beg for it as he wants her to do.”

“So she took the jewels with her,” I ruminated aloud. “Now, why did she do that?”

“Prob’ly she was afraid he’d sell them, or pawn them. She doesn’t trust him, and I can’t say as I blame her.”

“You don’t seem to like him much,” said I.

“Who would after he put the robbers on me?”

“And what do you mean by that?”

“I mean when they went in to force him to tell where the jewels was, he told them he didn’t know, but I would.”

“That was not very gallant of him, was it?”

“I daresay.”

“How did you manage to convince them that the jewels were gone from the house?”