The Color of Death (32 page)

“You will be careful of it, of course,” said he. It was in the nature of an order. “You are no doubt surprised at its lightness.”

And indeed I was careful, though I was not surprised at its negligible weight. In that way, as in nearly every other, it was a duplicate of that which belonged to Lord Mansfield. It differed only in the design or picture which it bore upon its side. Whereas the one I held presented a noblewoman gesturing in a pacifying manner, the other, as I recalled, offered a dragon in an unusual pacified posture — head down, its scaly feet stretched out before it in an attitude of obeisance. No doubt it illustrated some tale well-known to the Chinese.

“Yes,” said I, “it is wonderfully light. Even more impressive is its beauty.” I offered the vase back to him.

“Ah, a true connoisseur,” said he, taking it.

“I am flattered.”

“You should be. I am the greatest of connoisseurs. For me to name you as one also puts you in truly exalted company.”

At that, he erupted into laughter. I do not believe that he thought it such a great witticism. Perhaps he wished only to signal to me that it was indeed a witticism and not spoken in earnest. When at last his fit of laughter subsided, he placed the revered object upon the mantel and studied it for a moment.

“This vase has a mate. Did you know that?”

I had vowed to myself that I would plead ignorance in this matter — and I kept my pledge. “Why no,” said I, “have you seen it? How do you know that this mate exists?”

“I held it in my hands last night.” He shrugged. “But even before that, I knew that this mate existed, that it had to exist.”

“Oh? How is that, sir?”

“Well, you see, there is a Chinese proverb — is that the word, ‘proverb’?”

I nodded reassuringly.

“And the proverb says something like this, ‘Even the fury of the dragon can be stilled by words of comfort from a beautiful woman.’ “

“You have the beautiful woman, and so the mate to your vase must picture …”

“The dragon, yes,” said he, “exactly so. It is a most unusual sort of dragon, for he grovels before her. In every other way the vase is exactly like the one here on my fireplace. Same size exactly, same shape … Och, I would love to own it!”

“Well, why don’t you buy it? Make an offer?”

My questions were left unanswered. Of a sudden, he turned round and looked sharply at me. “Charles says you are from the Bow Street Court, and you wish to offer an invitation.” Then did he shift his gaze beyond me and call out, “Is that correct, Charles?”

“That is correct, sir,” said the butler.

“And so, young sir,” said Mr. Zondervan, “what sort of invitation is it? To dinner? To coffee? To Newgate?”

He caught me with that. “Newgate, sir?” I laughed. “Oh no, not to Newgate. It is my understanding Sir John wants merely to meet you.”

“To meet me? Has my fame spread so far? How would he hear of a simple Dutch trading man like me?”

“Why, from Mr. Gabriel Donnelly, sir. I believe you met him last night, did you not? It was at some dinner or other.”

Then a look of realization appeared upon his face. “Och, ja! The Irish doctor! I brought him last night to his home.”

“And I brought him away again.”

“You? I don’t understand.”

“Simple enough,” said I. “There was a murder last night, and I was sent by Sir John to fetch Mr. Donnelly to the location of the crime. He is, though you may not know this, the medical examiner for the coroner.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Zondervan, “I do believe I heard that.”

“Yes sir, well, coming from this dinner parry, he was full of your stories and talking of how well you told them. I believe they were tales of some town in Holland, one with a rather comical name. I can’t quite …”

“Ja,ja, Dingendam!”

“That’s it, of course. But Mr. Donnelly could not remember them properly, nor could he do them justice in the telling.”

“I daresay,” said he, puffing up a bit.

“But Sir John heard enough so that he was eager to meet you.”

“To tell him the stories?”

“Oh, perhaps one or two, but just to meet you, sir. He leads a rather humdrum life, poor man. We’re after him constantly to expand his circle of acquaintance, but he is shy of it — his affliction, you know.”

“Affliction?”

“Perhaps you didn’t know, sir, but he is blind.”

“Yes, yes, I heard something of that.” He fell silent then, considering the matter. Then, rousing himself: “Charles, have we any reason to doubt this young man is who he says he is?”

“None that I know, sir,” came the response of the butler from behind me.

“Well then, I believe that we can spare Sir John Fielding an hour or two, don’t you?”

“As you say, sir.”

“Have the coach brought round. I must attend to something before we go.” And then to me: “You will accept a ride in my coach back to Bow Street, I assume?”

“With pleasure, sir,” said I to him.

“Good. If you will wait for me at the door, I shall join you there.”

With that, Charles, the butler, ushered me out into the corridor and we began our march to the street entrance. As we set out, I could not but notice that the door to the room across the hall — the former picture gallery — had mysteriously (and noiselessly) been closed. Then did I note that all the doors along the way, some of which had earlier stood open, were now likewise shut.

The butler left me at the vestibule, promising that the master would be along shortly. “I must go summon the coach, or you and he will both be kept waiting.” Then, turning, he left me.

When I stood at that same place a few minutes before, I had heard sounds of considerable activity from a place or places in the depths of the house. So was it again. The hammering, the sound of heavy objects pushed across the floor, all of it heard, but dimly, suggested to me that preparations were underway to move Mr. Zondervan’s entire household a considerable distance. There were voices, too, of course, yet so muffled and indistinct that it was impossible to make sense of what they were saying. Yet as I listened, I remembered that Sir John had often said that each voice had its own song, its own pitch, and its own key. And it seemed to me that I knew the song one of those voices was singing. It was a song I had heard before. This one, it seemed to me, came from somewhere below stairs, and though I could understand little or nothing of what it said, I sensed the emotion it expressed: It was anger, no mistaking that — and this, too, seemed right. Where had I heard it? Who was it? Whence such anger?

I know not how long I stood there, deep in concentration, trying to answer those questions. Yet when I heard footsteps down the hall, I looked up, smiling, to greet Mr. Zondervan. He stepped briskly into my sight, the very picture of male elegance in dress; he wore a cape about his shoulders, and in his hand he carried his tricorn and his gloves.

Though the butler was absent, I saw no need to wait for him to open the door for his master. I hauled it open and pulled it back. Quite heavy it was, too.

“Good God, where is Charles?” asked Mr. Zondervan more or less rhetorically.

As if in answer came the sound of running feet, then appeared the butler, jog-trotting for all he was worth.

“Too late, Charles, this young man has usurped your position, I fear. He opens the door with great authority.”

“Sorry, sir, I was delayed in back there with the porters.”

“Ah well, the coach will no doubt soon appear.”

“At any moment, sir.”

And indeed in the very next moment it did come, rattling, rumbling, clop-clop-clopping into view. The driver reined in the four horses before the house, and the footman was down in a trice to throw open the door to the carriage. Mr. Zondervan strode past me and was already down the steps before he turned round to look for me.

“Come along, young man — unless it is that you would prefer to walk.”

“By no means, sir,” said I and ran in pursuit.

I have no idea how at that moment I happened to remember, nor what trick of the mind then came into play, but it was precisely then, as I scrambled up and into the interior of the coach that I realized whose voice I had heard in the vestibule. It belonged to none other than Constable Will Patley, the most recently recruited of the Bow Street Runners.

In the event, the meeting between Sir John and Mr. Zondervan was something of a disappointment — or so it seemed to me. The two got on famously. Whereas I expected Sir John to launch into a merciless interrogation of the Dutchman, all I heard from the magistrate’s chambers was the sound of laughter. How could he be taken in by him in such a way?

Later it occurred to me that my expectations were rather unrealistic. After all, what more had he to rely upon than my suspicions that Mr. Zondervan was indeed the ruthless Dutch trader that Moses Martinez had described to me in such peculiar fashion? (And later, much later, I discovered that he had a good deal more than that to rely upon — but I anticipate somewhat.) Leave it that having done my part in persuading Mr. Zondervan to visit Sir John, I expected for insufficient reason that some great result would come from the meeting. And so in my frustrated state, I felt relieved when at last I detected sounds indicating the Dutchman’s imminent departure; chairs scraped across the floor as their occupants rose; the laughter ceased; their voices deepened in cordial farewell.

As both men appeared at the door to the magistrate’s chambers, I rose from the bench nearby. Sir John summoned me to them.

“Jeremy,” said he, “would you accompany this gentleman to his coach?”

Then did the gentleman in question make his final farewell in phrases so fawning and insincere that I now find that I have expunged them totally from my memory. All I can now recall is that I suddenly experienced a profound wish to gag.

I fought it off, however, and in respectful silence conveyed our guest to the door, and through it to the street. There he paused before his waiting coach and offered me a smile.

“I wish to thank you, young sir. I spent a very pleasant hour with your Sir John Fielding. I found him a charming old character, not in the least impeded by — how did you call it? — his affliction.”

We said our goodbyes, and I, once more feeling my gorge rising, retreated swiftly through the door. When I reached Sir John, I found him once more at his desk and chuckling still.

“Jeremy, come in, come in,” said he. “What did you think of him — this fellow Zondervan? Very amusing, very entertaining, couldn’t you say/

Well, you certainly seemed to find him so,” said I, a bit cross. “I’ve seldom heard such laughter come from this room.”

“I believe I laughed as much at our situation as what was said.”

“And what was the situation?”

“Each of us was trying to convince the other that he was different from what he might seem.”

“I don’t quite follow,” said I.

“Quite simple. He seemed to me to be rather large — at least tall. Have I got him right so far?”

“You do, yes.”

“And there was a bit of vanity crept into his voice, in spite of himself. And so I should say he is rather handsome, or fancies himself so. Altogether, he thinks himself superior to the rest of us. Did you see some of that?”

“I did,” I said. “I’d say you have him to the life.”

“And yet that tall, handsome fellow who believes he is one of nature’s noblemen comes before me and seeks to convince me that he is nothing more or less than a jolly Dutchman. And I, at the same time, do my best to convince him that I am naught but a … a …”

“A charming old character?”

“Right you are! A codger, an eccentric, a …” He stopped. “But whence came that ‘charming old character’ phrase?”

“Where indeed!” said I. “From Mr. Zondervan, just as he departed.”

“Perfect!” he gloated, all but rubbing his hands with glee. “But I bested him! He let drop a few things he would not have said to one he held less in contempt.”

I judged from this that Sir John held him seriously suspect. This, then, was the time to bring forth the observations I had made while in the house in St. James Street. I proceeded to do so, describing the empty picture gallery and the cloth covers thrown over the furniture, the general air of a household in transition.

“There was a good deal of hammering and sawing, and the sound of boxes dragged about,” said I. “The butler claimed that it was no more than spring housecleaning. Nevertheless, I am certain that they were preparing to make a move.”

“Yes, well, most interesting, I must admit.” He said it in that musing, dismissive manner that quite drove me mad.

And so I vowed that I would present the next bit of news I had for him in such a way that he would be unable to dismiss it in his usual manner. I thought how I might engage his interest.

“Sir John,” said I then in a tone of great importance, ” you will never guess who was there at Zondervan’s residence.”

“You are right, Jeremy, I will never guess that, for as you know — or should know by now — I do not indulge in such childish practices as guessing. Now, if you have something to tell me, by all means do so. You have my complete attention.”

“Do you wish me to tell you, or no?” I fear I sounded quite petulant, for I was rather distressed at that moment.

“I have said so, have I not?”

Having gone thus far, there was naught for me to do but continue. And so I described to him where I was when I heard Constable Patley’s voice, and how I heard it; which is to say, as a song without words. Sir John did indeed listen carefully, and when I had done, he seemed for a few moments to be at a loss for words. On such rare occasions, it was difficult to divine just what he might be thinking.

But then he shrugged rather grandly, and I could tell that he had decided to deal with it as lightly as possible. “Ah well, those old houses, you know,” said he, “they play tricks upon your ears. If you had stood in some other spot, the same voice might have sounded exactly like Clarissa’s or even mine.” At that he laughed abruptly, as if the very idea were so outlandish that it amused him greatly.

“I do not believe, sir, that Mr. Zondervan’s house is particularly old.”