The Color of Death (23 page)

“Here, now,” shouted one, “he hadn’t got but one ball in that pistol, and now he’s fired it off.”

“Come, let’s grab that black boy!”

Each took a step — no more — toward us. I let them come no closer. Pulling out the second pistol somewhat ostentatiously, I aimed it without cocking it at the nearest of them.

“I’ll kill the first of you who comes close.” I said it loudly and most confidently; I half-believed it myself.

Again they fell back. Yet still the mob showed no signs of dispersing. Somewhat to the contrary, a crowd of onlookers had gathered on the other side of the street. They seemed neutral in their sympathies, but rather amused and entertained by what had happened thus far. Laughing and pointing they were, altogether indifferent as to whether I, or Frank Barber, or one of the mob were killed, so long as it were done in a sufficiently diverting manner.

Then was I surprised when one of those well behind the first row of Frank’s pursuers came forward, a man of near forty he was, stout of figure and dignified in his bearing; he seemed not to belong with the rest of them at all. He waved his hand at me, as one might at school, to get the teacher’s attention.

“May I speak?”

I aimed the pistol at him.

“You may.”

“I believe you misjudge our intentions,” said he. “We are here to see justice done. That blackie you are protecting is one of that gang of thieves that’s been robbing the homes of the gentry and the nobles hereabouts. We who are here are in service to houses in St. James Square. We saw this black fellow who stands behind you now lurking about the houses there, and he was recognized as one of the thieves.”

“Recognized by whom?”

“That matters little. He is the right color, and we all agreed that he is one of them. Our intention is to bring him to justice.”

“Well, you are all most fortunate,” said I, “for I am an assistant to Sir John Fielding, magistrate of the Bow Street Court, and if you are correct, then Sir John will certainly wish to question him. And so I shall take charge of him. You have my thanks for bringing him to me.”

“But-”

“And now,” said I, interrupting, refusing to be intimidated by this pompous individual (who was surely a butler), “I must now command all of you to leave, disperse, and be gone.” Is this what Sir John would have said? Something sterner perhaps in final rebuke: “You have together created a mob, and mob action will not be tolerated in the city of Westminster.” There, I thought, that should do it.

And it might have, for those who constituted the mob began talking uncertainly amongst themselves, one or two began drifting away, and their well-appointed spokesman seemed, for the moment at least, at a loss for words. But just at that decisive moment, a big woman pushed through from the rear to the very front. She was indeed large in every way — tall, broad, and weighty — and biggest of all was her mouth.

“What’s the matter with all of you?” she shouted out at her companions. “Are you goin’ta let this young pint of piss turn you round and send you back home? How do we know he’s from Bow Street, like he says he is? I daresay his intention may be to take this nigger round the corner and turn him loose with a pat on his black arse. No, by Gawd, we’ll make an example of that African like we started out to do. Follow me! He’ll not dare to shoot a woman.”

(Alas, reader, she had correctly perceived the limits of my ruthless intentions. Indeed, I would not, could not, shoot a woman. Perhaps I might shoot to wound a man — in fact, had done so — but I had never shot to kill anyone and dearly hoped I never would. As may have been plain to you, I was bluffing — playing brag with the mob.)

She turned back to me, anger and contempt writ upon her face. What could I do? Threaten her with an even graver warning? What could \do1

But as she started toward me, help came from a most unexpected source. Who should come bursting through the crowd of onlookers but Constable Patley? He ran forward, halting the woman, not so much in fear as in astonishment. Bending, he grabbed up the stick-club dropped by one of the two bold lads who had first challenged me. Without a word, he went directly to her and gave her a sharp thwack on her backside.

The audience on the far side of the street, gallants and their ladies, made great merriment of this, laughing lustily as they might at some jolly street fair.

“The lad is what he says he is,” said Mr. Patley, “and I am a Bow Street constable. If all of you do as he says and disperse, leaving this place as quick as ever you can, then you’ll have no more trouble from us. But if you stay, 111 knock you down one by one.” And then he spoke direct to the big woman whom he had insulted with his stick: “And you, you foul-mouthed slut, I’ll bring you in for inciting to riot. Have I made myself clear?”

There then issued from her a great stream of obscenity and profanity such as I had not heard in one dose in any of the lowest dives in Bedford Street. But reluctantly, grudgingly, she turned round, as did all the rest of the mob, and trailed out in the general direction of the square.

The audience did truly applaud, which amazed me, though it seemed altogether in keeping with the attitude of those pleasure-seekers from Pall Mall. Moreover, Mr. Patley bowed in response, which amazed me more.

“Jeremy,” came the voice behind me. “Could you let me out, please? I am quite squashed here between you and the iron fence.”

“Good God,” said I, stepping quickly away. “Frank! Do forgive me! I’d completely forgotten.”

“I rather thought you had,” said Frank somewhat dryly. “Must I now go with you to be questioned by Sir John?” He looked at me rather dubiously.

“Oh, perhaps it might be best, since that is what I told them. You should, in any case, give him your account of what happened — the mob chasing you and all. Credit Constable Patley for saving us both. I must thank him myself.”

Then did I look about me. The street had emptied quickly. There were but four or five scattered here and there, and Mr. Patley was not among them. He had simply disappeared — yet he could not have gone far. Where were we in St. James Street? The Bilbo house was not far, nor for that matter was Lord Lilley’s; but closer, and between the two, stood the Zondervan mansion. Could he have gone in there? Who might he know inside? Could I ask him? Would he tell me?

I sighed. “Well, come along, Frank. Mr. Johnson will be wondering what’s become of you.”

Though he had done with his Magistrate’s Court a couple of hours before, Sir John was still up and about when I arrived with Frank Barber at Number 4 Bow Street. For the most part, Frank had been rather quiet during our walk back; therefore was I mildly surprised when, upon entering the “backstage area” of the Bow Street Court (strongroom, clerk’s alcove, magistrate’s chambers, et cetera), he became of a sudden quite loquacious in Sir John’s presence. He did not wait for me to introduce him or present him, but rather went right to where the magistrate stood conversing with Mr. Marsden, and offered himself as an old friend.

“Sir John,” said he, “it is I, Francis Barber. We met on a number of occasions when I was much younger at the home of Mr. Johnson in Gough Square. That was before I was sent off for schooling, from which I have lately returned.”

He offered his hand to Sir John — nay, more than offered, for he thrust it at him, grasped the magistrate’s own, and shook it vigorously.

“Ah yes,” said Sir John, “I believe I recall you now. What brings you here, young man? Have you a letter for me from Mr. Johnson?”

“No sir, as it happens, I do not. Yet, curiously enough, it was in a way a letter from Mr. Johnson, one which I delivered to a house in St. James Square, that brings me to you now.”

Wherewith Frank Barber told his tale, much of which I heard for the first time. He had, it seemed, done no more than deliver the letter to a Sir Exlward Talcott, resident of the square, when a crowd gathered round him. Those in the crowd demanded to know what he did there, yet would not listen to his response. Instead they accused him of being one of that gang of robbers that had been raiding the grand houses thereabouts, and would not listen to his vigorous denials. They, it seemed, were household staff members in various residences around the square. As they pushed poor Frank about, threatening him, buffeting him, he saw that what had been a crowd was now a mob. They meant to harm him (he saw a horsewhip in the hands of one of them), perhaps kill him (another brandished a length of rope), and so, seeing an opportunity to break loose from them, he took it. He ran fast as ever he could, leading them once around the square and out of it, into St. James Street.

“And there,” said he, “I managed, with the help of your assistant Jeremy Proctor, to elude them completely.”

With that he concluded, quite astonishing me and frustrating me, as well. Was that all there was to it? Had I not stood off a dozen (fifteen? twenty?) with a single pistol? Had I not protected him with my very body? And what about Mr. Patley? Had he not demonstrated rare courage by intimidating the mob armed only with a stick? Had he not saved both Frank and me?

I opened my mouth, thinking to correct Frank’s version; then almost immediately I shut it. For as I looked at Frank and noted the innocent expression on his face, I realized that he truly believed that this was how it had happened: He had done all with but a bit of help from me. There was naught for me to say which would not sound self-serving. Even to describe Mr. Patley s part in it — his dramatic entrance, et cetera — required first a description of the calamitous situation in which I found myself. And so, reader, I said nothing.

Yet Sir John, having heard all, must have suspected that something was amiss, for he said to Frank, “Tell me, young sir, how did you manage to elude the mob once you were in St. James Street?”

“Ah well,” said he, “that was rather a complicated matter. No doubt Jeremy could explain it better.” Though he sounded assured and confident in his manner of speech, the look in his eyes was uncertain, almost fearful.

“Jeremy?”

“If it’s exactitude you seek, sir, it may take a while to work it out.”

“Later, perhaps.”

“If you don’t mind.”

Then did Sir John return to Frank Barber. “And how did those in this crowd, which became a mob, come to suspect you to be one of the robbers?”

“Why, it was a matter of color, sir. As I understand it, this gang of thieves present themselves as Africans.”

“You doubt that they are?”

“I am not convinced of it.” There was, in his manner of speech as he spoke these words, something almost arrogant. It was as if he were putting the burden of proof upon Sir John.

“Leaving that aside, you are convinced that it was only because of your color that you were abused and pursued by the mob?”

“Well …” He hesitated. “There may have been something else. There was something I said did not please them well.”

“And what was that? “

He cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and plunged ahead. “When one of them, I forget which, referred to me as an African, I told them that I was no African but as much an Englishman as any one of them.”

“Indeed that might not sit well with them,” said Sir John dryly.

“They grew angry at that. And when I asked them which of them had served in the Royal Navy, as I had, they grew angrier.”

In spite of himself, Sir John fell to chuckling at that. “My service in the Royal Navy never won me much respect.”

The two might have gone on in this way for quite some time, for they had begun to warm one to the other. But then the door to Bow Street opened, and in came a surprise. It was Robert Burnham in the company of Mr. Fuller. I knew that as the day man and jailer, Mr. Fuller was the only constable Sir John had at his disposal, and so he was sent out from time to time to bring in prisoners, or those wanted for interrogation who might resist or come only reluctantly. It seemed, oddly, that one or the other might be the case in this instance, for while Mr. Burn-ham was not in chains, Constable Fuller did indeed have a firm grip upon his arm. And Fuller wore, as he always did, a brace of pistols.

“Mr. Fuller, is that you?”

“It is, sir,” came the response.

“You have Mr. Burnham with you, I can tell. Did he give you any difficulty?”

“A bit. He was about to ride off somewheres, and I had to convince him that talking with you was more important than going for a ride of a Sunday.”

“Nothing violent, I hope.”

“Nossir, I just had to speak to him right sharp, is all.”

“Mr. Burnham?” It was the first time he had addressed him directly.

“Yes, Sir John?”

“Is Mr. Fuller accurate in what he says? You were not hurt, or treated roughly? And you came, more or less, of your own volition?”

“I’m here. I’m not hurt. I’m not in chains.”

“Good. Then you 11 be in good fettle for a little tete-a-tete.”

I happened just then to glance at Frank Barber, who stood quite close to me. The look of shocked astonishment upon his face was quite striking, for it expressed something personal — disappointment so profound that it was as if he were looking upon his fallen captain. I had not known, nor had I any reason to suspect, that Frank and Mr. Burnham were even acquainted, but obviously they were.

“Mr. Fuller, I must ask you to place Mr. Burnham in the strongroom while you and I talk briefly.”

“Gladly, Sir John.”

If Mr. Fuller was thus pleased by this, Mr. Burnham certainly was not. He did not physically resist, but his eyes shouted a loud protest as the great key was turned in the lock.

“Jeremy!” Sir John, who stood in the doorway to his chambers, called back to me. “I should like you in here, too.”

As I trailed Mr. Fuller to where Sir John waited, I wondered at Mr. Burnham’s status. If he were a prisoner, he was certainly being treated with deference by the magistrate. And if he had been brought in merely to be questioned further, then why was it necessary to lock him in the strongroom?

I glanced back at that wooden-barred cage as I entered Sir John’s chambers and saw Frank already deep in whispered conversation with Mr. Burnham.

“Come along, Jeremy.”

“Yes sir,” said I, and took my usual place in the chair opposite Sir John with his desk between us. Mr. Fuller preferred to remain on his feet. He stood a space away, wearing his usual frown, his arms folded across his chest.

“I really haven’t much to say,” declared Sir John in a low voice, “but I wish to create the impression in Mr. Burnham’s mind that we have a good deal of new information to discuss, so we need not hurry through this. If you have any questions, by all means ask them. If you have anything to add, by all means add it. You first, Mr. Fuller. Tell us, if you will, just what transpired when you visited the Bilbo residence and collected Mr. Burnham.”

Constable Fuller utterly lacked all power of abridgement. His tendency in making any sort of report ran exactly counter to that of tight-lipped Constable Brede. Where details had to be drawn out of Mr. Brede, they flowed endlessly abounding from Mr. Fuller. While this suited Sir John well, particularly in the circumstances he described, it might indeed try the reader’s patience if I were to attempt a literal copy of the constable’s remarks. To put it another way: Since he refused to abridge, I feel obliged to do so in what follows.

Mr. Fuller had been shown through the house by Jimmie Bunkins, for whom the constable has a special dislike stemming from Bunkins’s days as a young thief. He was fairly certain that an alarum was passed on to Mr. Burnham, who vacated the house while it was searched. What neither Bunkins, nor any of the rest expected, however, was that Fuller would have some knowledge of the place (given him by Constable Bailey, chief of the Bow Street Runners) — enough to know where the stable was located and how to reach it. He sought it out on his own, and found Mr. Burnham trying to saddle the mare without the aid of the stable boy, who happened to be visiting home that day. Burnham had it near done by the time the constable arrived, so that he made a brave attempt to mount the horse and ride out of the stable. But alas, because he was seldom called upon to saddle his own horse, he hadn’t pulled the saddle-girth quite tight enough, and in the act of mounting, saddle and all came down upon him as he fell upon his backside. Though Mr. Fuller helped him to his feet, he was unkind enough to laugh at him as he did it. This provoked an angry exchange between the two men: Mr. Burnham demanded that the constable help him saddle up again, and was told that he had no need to do so, for he was going to Number 4 Bow Street to see Sir John Fielding. Mr. Burnham then said that he was far more eager to see what awaited him at the end of the ride than he ever would be to see Sir John. And on and on they went, the matter between them never resolved, until Mr. Fuller simply ordered Mr. Burnham to return the horse to her stall and come along with him to Bow Street. He emphasized his directive by toying with the grip of one of the pistols he wore, though he swore that he never actually took it from his holster. Without further ado, the horse was tended to, and the two men set off together to see the magistrate.

To tell that story to Sir John — complete with details and digressive excursions — took near ten minutes. Even Sir John, who had an apparently inexhaustible hunger for minutiae of every sort, was a bit overwhelmed by this, so that when he turned to me, he had but a question to be answered.

“Jeremy,” said he, “what precisely was it that the stable boy told you with regard to the frequency of these trips? Was it every Sunday that Mr. Burnham rode out to this secret destination?”

I thought back that I might be precise in my response. “Wliat he said, sir, was two or three times a week, four at the most, but always on Sunday.”

“Hmmm,” said Sir John, giving the matter some consideration, “that is rather a lot, isn’t it? Did he say how long this had been going on?”

“Not in so many words, no, but the implication seemed to be that it was quite a long time — months, I should think. After all, when you say ‘always on Sunday’…”

“Well, yes, I see your point.” He quietened down for a good long time, giving himself completely to thought. At last, he said, “A woman ! That is it. That must be it. He is paying court to a woman some distance away. But how can we know who she is unless he tells us?”

We pondered that between us. Perhaps Mr. Fuller may even have given it a thought or two, but in the end there was naught said and no suggestion made. Sir John was, I believe, ready to adjourn our meeting when I decided to seek from him the answer to the question that had earlier troubled me.

“Sir,” said I, “can you tell me, what is the legal status of Mr. Burnham? Is he a prisoner? Is he here for questioning?”

He smiled rather crookedly at that. “Well you might wonder, Jeremy. You’ll find his status defined in no law book I know of. Let me say that as it stands now, there are but two matters against him. The first is the accusation made by Mr. Trezavant. Ordinarily, it would not in itself be sufficient to send him to the gallows, for we know that at the time he was visited by the robbers, the man was drunk. Nevertheless, Mr. Trezavant is the coroner of the city of Westminster, and his testimony as a witness cannot simply be dismissed; it is not good for the magistrate and the coroner to be at odds. Furthermore, he received his appointment as coroner because he is friend to the prime minister, and it is not good for the London magistrate and the prime minister to be at odds.