The Color of Death (15 page)

“You are fortunate to have such a father,” said Sir John.

“Indeed I know that — and he knows I know, for we write once a month, exchanging news and our views upon the great matters of the world. It may interest you to know that, in principle at least, he is opposed to slavery.”

“It interests me, but it does not surprise me. Many of those who engage in immoral practices justify themselves saying that it is naught but economic necessity forces them to do so. They often declare that, given their preference, they would be in a more respectable line of endeavor.”

This was said by Sir John in a rather cool manner. Mr. Burnham had no immediate response. He threw a glance in my direction, the first he had given me since he had begun his talk with Sir John. I had seen him previously in profile, and now for the first time in full-face; he did not look happy.

“My father is a moral man,” said he at last.

“Oh, I’ve no doubt of it. But you also said he was a rich man, did you not? I believe your phrase was, ‘he was a rich man who wished to become richer’ — and I’m sure he has. But not so rich as to free all his slaves.”

“Perhaps someday he will,” Mr. Burnham said suddenly, in an almost defiant voice. But he continued in a more reasonable tone, “I used my own story simply as an example, Sir John. Others of my color have claimed their freedom as I did, and have been shipped back to Jamaica in irons, or have been sold outright to another master, right here in England. Still others, knowing their ambiguous legal situation, have simply kept silent and run away at the first opportunity.”

“Yes, and there have been cases before our courts which have treated aspects of this … this contradiction we have been discussing. There is, in fact, a case before the Lord Chief Justice that — ”

“As I well know,” interrupted Mr. Burnham eagerly. “The Somerset case* may indeed put an end to slavery here and in the colonies.”

I sensed the excitement in him regarding this matter of law. He was not alone in this. All London was talking of it during that spring of 1772.

The two had sometime earlier exchanged their conversational attitudes. Mr. Burnham now sat forward in his chair, fully absorbed in the matters they discussed. Though similarly absorbed, Sir John had adopted a more relaxed style; leaning as far back as he might, rubbing his chin in a considering manner.

Far down the hall, I heard the door to the street slam shut. Had someone departed? Entered?

“It may be so, as you say, that this trial will determine a great deal,” said Sir John. “But knowing Lord Mansfield as well as I do, it may well be that it is decided narrowly upon the facts of the case. He does not believe in deciding great social and political issues in a court of law.”

There were heavy footsteps down the hall. Though the Lord Chief Justice often made his entrance in just such a way, the pace of the footsteps — slow and deliberate — was not his. Sir John frowned at the anticipated interruption.

Mr. Burnham, also frowning, spoke up in response: “Well, sir, all I can say is that I hope that you are wrong.”

Then did Mr. Marsden’s voice come to us as he attempted to intervene. He offered to announce the unknown guest. Yet the footsteps continued plodding heavily toward the magistrate’s chambers.

At last the visitor appeared, barging through the door as he pushed aside Mr. Marsden, squeezing in. It was a figure of great proportions. Indeed it was Mr. Trezavant, dressed just as he was when we had passed him earlier, yet a good deal more florid in the face, breathing heavily as he stood for a moment, surveying the room.

“Sir John,” he began — but got little further.

“Mr. Trezavant, is it you? What have you to discuss that is of such importance that it cannot wait for my clerk, Mr. Marsden, to announce you.’

*More of this later, reader.

That should have intimidated him, but it did not. He held his ground, and he continued in a loud voice, near shouting at us across the room: “I came here to tell you that I saw your young assistant consorting with a criminal, but now I understand better. He has brought the fellow to you, has he not? Has an arrest been made? Are you interrogating the culprit?”

“Sir, you make no sense at all. I have no notion of what you mean — no, not the slightest.”

“Why, I saw these two in company with a young woman as they passed by my home in Little Jermyn Street. I could hardly believe my eyes.”

“Please make yourself clear.”

“This man, the African, him it was who led the band of thieves who robbed my home of its treasures, assaulted me, and caused my butler to collapse in an apoplectic attack.”

Having made the accusation, he pointed across the room at Mr. Burnham, just so there should be no mistake. “I demand that he be held and bound over for trial. I will see this man hanged, or know the why and wherefore of it. Sir John,” he said, fairly shouting it out, “I leave this up to you.”

After he had quite stunned us all, Mr. Trezavant turned round and stamped out of the magistrate’s chambers (thus exhibiting a sense of the dramatic that I had not known he possessed). In his haste, he bumped Mr. Marsden aside once again. The clerk stared after him in a most puzzled manner.

“Sorry about that, sir,” said he. “I just couldn’t hold him back.”

“Think nothing of it,” said Sir John. “That fellow has been a trial to me from the moment I met him.”

As the clerk disappeared, Mr. Burnham rose from his chair in a manner I could only describe as cautious and addressed Sir John: “And what about me? Shall I, too, think nothing of it?”

“Well, perhaps a bit more than nothing — but not a great deal more. I presume you know where you were last night? “

“Yes — yes, of course I do.”

“And where was that, sir?”

“Why …” He hesitated — not so long as to make one suspicious, but long enough to cause notice. “Why, I remained in the house all evening. I was reading in my room, so I was. That’s what I was doing until Jeremy here knocked upon the door, looking for the loan of Mr. Bilbo’s coach.”

“When was that, Jeremy?” Sir John asked of me.

“It must have been near midnight,” said I. “Near it but not yet upon it.”

“But by then,” said he, “the robbers had come and gone, the constables had been notified, and Patley had gone to fetch you. Is that not so?”

“Well …yes sir.”

“Perhaps you could find one or two others who could vouch for your presence in the house during the evening, Mr. Burnham.”

“Oh, I’m sure I can.” It was said with certainty. “Master Bunkins? The coachmen?”

“They would do very well, sir,” said the magistrate. “I shall send Jeremy by the residence to talk with them.”

“And in the meantime?”

“In the meantime, what? I do not understand, sir.”

“Am I to be detained?”

“By no means, Mr. Burnham. Jeremy here made it clear that Mr. Trezavant was quite drunk, both during and after his home was invaded by that band of brigands. My chief constable, Mr. Bailey, seconded that in his written report. I doubt that in such a state he could retain the memory of his assailants. And quite frankly, even believing a sober Mr. Trezavant would call for a greater leap of faith than I am capable of. You are free to go, sir. “

Though Sir John could not see the bow Mr. Burnham made him, it was a pretty one; no mere bob of the head. Bending at the waist, the tutor dropped down quite low, and in this curious posture he spoke: “I thank you for your trust in me.” Then, straightening to his considerable height, he turned and started for the door.

“Oh, but Mr. Burnham, one last matter. I was about to pose a group of questions to you when we were interrupted so rudely.”

Stopping, turning, the tall Jamaican gave the magistrate his full attention. “So? What have you then, Sir John?”

“Are you acquainted with others of your color here in London?”

“I am. Though I have not sought them out, there are so many about that it was inevitable that I should meet a few. One or two of them I call friend and see from time to time.”

“How are they employed?”

“Most are in domestic service, though you may find them in many different trades and occupations.”

“Even thievery?”

“Perhaps,” said Mr. Burnham, “for with such a number of us in this city, there are bound to be a few lawbreakers among us.”

“Do you know of any who have that reputation?”

“No, not even those who are but rumored to have turned to villainy.

Let me say, Sir John, that it may well be that there are fewer Africans who have turned to crime than with other comparable groups.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

“Because, sir, if a black man commits an act of violence or a brazen theft, he will immediately be identified as a black man and be thus much easier to discover and arrest. Since this is no suppositional matter, and the particular Africans you have in mind are those who entered and robbed the homes of Lord Lilley and that man, Trezavant, then I would say that if they were truly men of color, I believe they would have been far better advised to disguise themselves in white-face.”

“Are you suggesting … ?”

“I suggest nothing at all, Sir John. I merely offer an opinion.”

With that, Mr. Burnham turned once again and made for the door. He was through it, and down the hall in no time at all. We listened to his footsteps beat a quick rhythm to the door.

Then was he gone with the bang of that same door out into Bow Street.

“Shall I catch him up, Sir John?” I asked him. “I might have the opportunity to talk with Bunkins before their afternoon class begins.”

“No,” said he, “let him have time to talk with your friend, Bunkins, the coachmen, and anyone else he might get to lie for him.”

“Sir? I don’t quite understand.”

“He is not telling the truth. That much is plain. Yet it is often the case that we can only get to the truth by listening carefully to the lies that we are told.”

“In what particulars do you think that he is lying, sir?”

“Why, I mean with regard to where he was last night. Oh, yes, indeed. But that does not mean that I believe, along with Mr. Trezavant, that Mr. Burnham is the captain of that crew of robbers.”

“How is it that you came to those conclusions, Sir John?”

“Well, I fear it’s little more than a feeling on my part. But my feelings in these matters usually prove out. In fact, they always do.”

“Indeed,” said I, puffing up a bit, “I, too, had a feeling about Mr. Burnham. Twice, sir, on those occasions upon which I visited Mr. Bilbo’s residence following the robberies, Mr. Burnham answered the door, and I had the distinct feeling that he had just returned to the house. He was perspiring, and he seemed somewhat out of breath.”

“So you share the feeling that he spent those evenings away from home?”

I do, yes, sir.

“Do you then believe that Mr. Trezavant has him properly identified?” “

“Not at all, sir.”

“Good. Then we are in agreement. Go out and talk to them all. Listen to them carefully, and perhaps you can detect the holes in the tales that you are told; through them we may be able to wriggle our way to the truth.”

And so, having helped Sir John upstairs and into his bed, I set off upon a path that had become all too familiar to me over the past few days. I decided to alter it a bit, walking by way of the Hay Market and Piccadilly, and in this way I entered St. James Street from above. Had I not chosen to go by this roundabout route, I should not have come to the corner of St. James at Little Jermyn Street, where I encountered a familiar face and figure. It was none but John Mossman, the porter who had been present when the robbers made their spectacular entrance into the Trezavant house. He saw me, just as I saw him, and gave me a wave and a great “hallooo,” as he hurried to the place where I awaited him. It was a fortuitous meeting; he had news to impart — quite a lot of it, as it turned out.

“Fancy I should meet you here,” said he, upon arriving. “I was going on to Bow Street later today to seek you out.”

“Oh? Had you something to add to what you told me last night?”

“Not I, but another. The cook, an old girl named Maudie Bleeker, asked to see you, to give you a bit of information. It ain’t so easy for a cook to get away during the day, y’know, so I told her I’d go by the magistrate’s and put you on notice, so s you could come and see her.”

I gave a bit of thought to that. I was eager to talk with anyone who might add to the flimsy bits of information I had gathered last night; nevertheless, there was a difficulty.

“Mr. Mossman,” said I, “I should like nothing better than to talk with the lady, but truth to tell, I wish to avoid meeting your master because of a recent misunderstanding.”

“Ah,” said he, “well then you’re in luck, lad, for this very morning he went off to Sussex on the post coach.”

“But I saw him earlier boarding a hackney.”

“It was to take him to the post-coach house. Well I know it, for he asked me, would I go up there and have the coach come by here to pick him up. When I told him they wouldn’t do that, he was quite miffy, he was. That’s when he asked me to summon him a hackney coach that he might get to the coach house.”

“He was off to inform his wife of the robbery, I suppose.”

“Off to plead with her to come back, is more like it.” He grinned in open amusement at his master’s troubles. “I’m going now to haul back a grand vase of the kind his wife collects. It’s to take the place of the one the robbers stole.” He ended with a laugh.

“Well, since he is away, I will indeed visit Mistress Bleeker.”

“You do that,” said Mr. Mossman. “She’ll be glad to see you, and maybe what she’s got to tell will really help you some. She kept mum to me, wouldn’t say what it was.”

I thanked him and began moving a step or two down Little Jermyn Street, but he waved me back.

“One more thing,” said he. “What do you know of poor Arthur? Is he still with us?”

“Is he alive? Well, he was when last I saw him. All that can be done for him at St. Bart’s will be done.”

“Which ain’t much, I fear.”

“No, not much, according to Mr. Donnelly.”

“A great shame it is, for Arthur was a grand fellow. Never had a bad word for anybody. I don’t know what you 11 think of the new one.”

“New one? You mean he already has a replacement?”

“You might say so. A fellow come to the door this morning and said he’d heard of our misfortune, and could he see the master. He was already dressed up in butler’s livery and ready for work. I can’t say whether he has the position permanent or not.”

“No doubt that depends upon Arthur’s recovery. Hmmm,” said I, again imitating Sir John, “interesting, very interesting. Goodbye to you then, Mr. Mossman. I’m quite glad we met.”

We parted. I hurried on to the Trezavant residence, and as I went, I attempted to arrange my expectations in some pattern with what was already known. What would Maudie Bleeker have to say? Would it change much — or even possibly all? I promised myself that I would visit St. Bartholomew’s Hospital and see for myself how Arthur Robb was getting on; perhaps he might have regained the power of speech.

I rapped smartly upon the door with the brass knocker that was placed approximately in its middle. There followed a pause, and then came the repeated click of heels across the hardwood floor. From within came the voice of a man: “Who is there? Please state your business.” There was indeed something familiar about it — yet I could not immediately place it.

“Jeremy Proctor,” said I, raising my voice to near a shout, “from the magistrate’s office. I am come to continue my investigation.”

The door swung open, revealing Mr. Collier, who was, until a few nights past, the butler to Lord Lilley of Perth. I exclaimed at this, voicing my surprise at discovering him in this new position.

“No more surprised than I am to see you, young sir,” said he.

“How did you know to come here?” I asked.

“The word went out this morning regarding what happened here last night. It traveled all round the St. James area. I heard that the butler — I believe his name was Mr. Robb — was seized by an apoplectic fit and delivered to St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. I understood immediately that they would be needing a butler, if only temporarily. And so I simply came here and offered my services to Mr. Trezavant. He seemed delighted to accept them.”

“Did you tell him how your last employment had ended?” I asked him, perhaps a bit unkindly.

“Oh, indeed I did. He would have heard of it in any case. His only response to what I told him was to ask me if I had learned a lesson from the experience. I assured him that I had. That seemed to satisfy him. Such a nice man.”

“Well,” said I, “you’re a fortunate man, Mr. Collier.”

“More than you know, young sir, for Mr. Zondervan, the master of the house where you visited me, has sent word that he will return on this very day. And hospitable as were my friends on the household staff, they would not have allowed me to stay beyond this morning.” He beamed at me then, happy to share his good news. There could be no doubt that he was a man altogether changed from the one I had met earlier. He was buoyant, ebullient, and probably once again something of a lickspittle.

“But come in, come in,” said he, stepping back from the door and flourishing a hand in invitation. “How may I serve you, young sir?”

Stepping inside, I waited until he had closed the door to the street. Then lowering my voice, I said, “I wish to continue interviewing the staff.”

“Of course,” said he. “To whom do you wish to speak?”

For some reason, I was reluctant to be specific. “Why not bring me below stairs, and I shall talk to them as they become available.”

“Why, that sounds like a splendid way to accomplish your purpose. Right this way, if you will.”

As I followed him down the long central hall, I imagined poor old Arthur lying mute upon some bed in St. Bart’s. What was his future? Had he any? Even if he were to recover completely, it was unlikely that he would be able to reclaim his position in the Trezavant household. Mr. Collier would surely not allow it; he meant to stay.