The Color of Death (33 page)

“Ah well, some of the new ones also have such faults. But let us get on to more serious matters, shall we? I have here a letter that must go out by today’s post. In your absence, Mr. Marsden took it in dictation for me. Will you take it to the post coach house, Jeremy?”

We had done with our sparring. “Of course I will, sir.”

He pushed it from its corner across the desk toward me. I reached over and took it, turned it over, and saw that it was addressed to the chief customs officer, Gravesend, Kent. Below that, written in red, as Mr. Marsden so often liked, was the single word, “urgent.” I could not suppose, nor even imagine, what matter Sir John might have with the chief of customs down at the mouth of the Thames. But I would ask no more questions. I would simply go where I was sent, and do what I was told, like a good errand boy.

I said my goodbye and started for the door, only to be called back.

“By the bye, Jeremy, you did not happen to mention to Mr. Zonder-van — or to anyone else, for that matter — that you believed you had heard Constable Patley’s voice in the house, did you?”

What was he getting at now? “No sir, I told only you.”

“That’s as it should be,” said he. “Keep it so.”

Like many an errand boy before me, I sulked the distance to my destination and dawdled all the way back. I dawdled willfully and skillfully, investigating streets and shops that had not, until then, received proper attention from me. So much time did I waste that before I knew it, dark had fallen without my notice. When at last it did come to my attention, I thought it likely that I was late for dinner. But then, with Annie gone, would there be any dinner?

In any case, I hastened home to Number 4 Bow Street and arrived in time to see the last few of the constables disappearing into Sir John’s chambers at the end of the long hall. An operation of some size was under way.

Jog-trotting down the hall, I was stopped by Mr. Baker, who was checking his armory.

“What’s afoot?” I asked him.

“Something big,” said he. “Pistols and cutlasses for all, and I’ve been invited along. He’s been asking for you, Jeremy. Better get inside.”

As I stepped into the magistrate’s chambers, I did a swift survey of the Bow Street Runners in the room and counted but nine present. Constable Perkins, Brede, and Patley were missing.

Sir John stood before them. “… and much as I dislike it, it will be necessary to divide our meager force …”

There would be little point in presenting to you, reader, only what I saw and heard on that decisive night, for though I saw much in the company of Sir John, I did not see all. This was, I daresay, the most far-reaching and ambitious undertaking ever attempted by the magistrate and his Bow Street Runners. In fact, so bold was it that the assistance of both the Army and the Coast Guard was required.

As Sir John explained his plan to the listening constables at the start of the evening, it was necessary to divide his force into three much smaller groups. There had to be Bow Street Runners at the residence of Lord Mansfield in Bloomsbury Square, at the Zondervan house in St. James Street, and at the dock in Bermondsey, where a Dutch ship by the name
Dingendam
prepared for departure — and all parts of the divided force had to be in place more or less simultaneously.

“It would not do,” Sir John explained, “if one or more should escape our net and run to tell his fellows at another location before our net has closed upon them. Now, you all have timepieces, do you not?”

There was a general sound of assent throughout the room in response to his question. Perhaps only I was without one of my own.

“Be in place by eight. Wait in concealment until you have action from the two houses of the sort I have described. Those of you who are assigned to the dock in Southwark, simply wait, but if they should try to take the tide and slip out, stop them. You may not be able to do that, but if you can’t, the final move will be out of our hands. Mr. Bailey will be in charge of the Bermondsey group, and he will make all decisions of that sort. If you have questions, ask them quickly and ask them now.”

There were a few. The most fateful of them came from Mr. Bailey himself: “Just how much force are we permitted to use, sir?”

“As much as is necessary,” responded Sir John. “If there be any casualties this evening, let them not be constables. That is as clear as I can be on that question. Pistols and cutlasses. Do with them what must be done.”

It was well over an hour afterward that Sir John and I sat in the coach loaned us by Black Jack Bilbo. The coach sat some houses down from Lord Mansfield’s grand place in Bloomsbury Square. With the door to the coach open, I had a good view of the house. Mr. Rumford sat next to me, as did Constable Queenan, and across from us, altogether relaxed, sat Sir John, curled comfortably within the generous space of the coach interior. He had a smile upon his face. It was as if, having planned this undertaking as precisely as he had, he was certain that it had already taken place and had come to a good conclusion. Nevertheless, the event had not yet taken place, and the conclusion to which it might come was still open to doubt. All we could do was wait and see.

“Do you see anything?” asked Constable Rumford; it was, in fact, the third time that he had put that question to me.

And again I responded, “Nothing yet.”

Mr. Bilbo’s driver and footman seemed to be getting restless, as was the team of four horses. I knew those animals. They were rather high-strung. When they were in harness, they wanted to be off and running. Such inactivity as was not their lot made them fractious and nervous.

It was now well after dark, of course, and though the square was well-lit with streetlamps, there was no moon at this hour of the night. There were dark corners and spaces enough to hide a good many. I paid particular attention to those places, looking for movement. At last I saw a bit of it, as a figure in black emerged from a passageway which seemed to run beside the house just beyond Lord Mansfield’s. As the figure moved closer to the nearest streetlamp, I saw better; it was a woman, one wearing a voluminous skirt, a shawl, and a prim little kerchief upon her head. She looked familiar.

Of course she did! I had indeed forgotten that the last such robbery had begun with a woman seeking refuge from an attacker. That was how the robbers had cozened Arthur, Mr. Trezavant’s butler, into opening the door to them. This was doubtless the woman. Further, she looked at a distance quite like Mary Pinkham, formerly Lady Lilley’s personal maid. I had come to suspect that she had played this role earlier. She looked the street up and down, paying little mind to Mr. Bilbo’s coach, for the driver had pulled up in such a way that it faced away from her; in appearance, it seemed simply to be waiting for a passenger to emerge from the house. Having satisfied herself, the woman removed her shawl and waved it several times in the direction of Great Russell Street. From where I sat, it was impossible to see who or what she waved at without dismounting from the coach. I had no intention of doing that.

Before I saw their wagon, I heard the sound of horses’ hooves and the squeak of the wheels. Then at last it appeared. The wagon was an unusual covered sort, so that quite a number of men could be carried in back without being seen.

“They’re here,” said I very quietly.

Constable Queenan shuffled and stamped, collecting himself, and was near out of the coach before Constable Rumford grabbed him and pulled him back.

“Don’t jump out just yet,” said he to him. “They’re not supposed to know we’re here.”

“Oh … oh yes, sorry,” said Mr. Queenan.

“The idea,” said Sir John, “is to catch them between you two on the outside and Mr. Perkins and Mr. Brede on the inside. You see the sense of that, don’t you, Mr. Queenan?”

“Yes sir, I do sir.”

“Just be careful not to shoot or slice any of our fellows, won’t you?”

“Oh, I will, sir.”

As this whispered discussion continued, I kept my eyes upon the odd-looking wagon as it pulled up before Lord Mansfield’s residence. Five men jumped out the back, well-armed, dressed in black, and all likely wearing black face paint as well. One, whom I took to be the leader, held a hurried conversation with the woman — Mistress Pink-ham? They parted, nodding in seeming agreement, and the leader beckoned the others to follow.

“They’re about to go inside,” said I, sotto voce.

Once more, Constable Queenan shifted his feet nervously.

“How many are there?” Constable Rumford asked.

“Five of them,” said I.

I could see her talking through the door. Was she weeping? Could Pinkham have done that? Whoever she was, she was quite an actress. The robbers were lined up behind her on either side of the door; they leaned forward in their eagerness to be inside.

Then, of a sudden, the door came open just a bit. The woman remained a moment, but was swept aside in the concerted dash of her five companions. The door slammed shut behind them, and she went to the wagon.

“They’re in,” said I, excitedly, all but shouting it.

“All right, gentlemen, take your places before Lord Mansfield’s door.”

There was a great scramble to leave the coach. I threw open the door on my side and jumped out to allow Constable Rumford an easy passage to the pavement. Constable Queenan was already out and running for the wagon, a pistol in his hand. Rumford took a place directly before Lord Mansfield’s door. While standing on the walkway, I had a better view of the situation, and saw a flaw that had developed in the plan due to the positioning of the robbers’ wagon. It had pulled up a bit shy of the door of the house, thereby making it quite impossible for Queenan to cover both the door and the wagon at the same time.

“Sir John,” said I, leaning back into the coach, “I see something that must be done! Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”

Running to relieve Mr. Queenan, I heard Sir John call after me twice, yet I continued, sure that had he eyes as I had to see things plain, he would no doubt have sent me out himself.

(Have no fear, reader, I was armed. Though I had no cutlass at my side, Mr. Baker had buckled round me a brace of pistols. He would not allow me to venture forth at night unarmed, and on that night in particular, he thought it my duty to serve as Sir John’s guard. I hoped that in lending a hand to the constables, I was not neglecting their chief.)

By the time I reached Mr. Queenan, he had ordered the driver and the woman down out of the wagon; they were slow to move, angry, desperate; they seemed ready to bolt at the first opportunity. I explained my intrusion to Queenan, and he assured me he was grateful for my aid. Then did he join Rumford at the door.

I saw that indeed I was correct: The woman in black, who had played out the drama at the door, was indeed Mistress Pinkham. Her eyes widened in recognition as I pulled out both pistols and cocked them. The driver, an old teamster, hard-faced and silent, looked to be one who had driven many an illegal mile in his life.

No more than a minute had elapsed in all this.

Shots were fired inside the house. Though they sounded no more lethal than those of a child’s pop gun, the sound of them had penetrated an oaken door: The skirmish had truly begun.

Then, just moments later, that oak door flew open, and out tumbled the robbers. There were just four of them; one of their number had fallen inside the house. And after them, in noisy pursuit, came Constable Perkins, a pistol in his hand, and a knife clenched between his teeth, and Constable Brede, waving a cutlass about, shouting, aiming his pistol in a most threatening manner at the nearest of the villains.

Reader, you cannot imagine the look of consternation upon the black-painted faces of those in that robber band when, as they emerged from the house, they beheld four pistols, loaded and cocked, aimed at their hearts by Rumford and Queenan. The trouble was, you see, that I myself did not imagine that look of consternation, I saw it. In so doing, I took my attention away from my two prisoners for no more than the length of a glance. Yet that was time enough for them to wreak havoc upon us.

First of all, I had made an error in allowing Mistress Pinkham and the driver to stand but six feet away, which was much too close. (“Jeremy,” Mr. Perkins lectured me afterward, ” you must never allow them to get that close unless you intend to shoot them on the spot” — and such was not my intention.) In that brief space of time, Pinkham leapt across that short distance, grabbed me by the back of the neck with one hand, and with the other grasped my right wrist and attempted unsuccessfully to wrestle the pistol from my hand. Unable to do more than hang on, she settled for that and hung on to me like a lamprey. And then did she begin screaming, rending the night with fearful wails.

Meantime, the driver slipped from my view and made for his seat on the wagon box, and one of the four on the steps broke away from the others and ran to follow.

What I did then, no gentleman would have done, but I was not then a gentleman, nor have I become one: I clubbed Mistress Mary Pinkham upon the head with the pistol in my free hand. I delivered a sharp whack with the barrel, which quite surprised her, but did nothing more. It took two more stiff blows and a bleeding pate to render her unconscious. She slipped with a bump down to the pavement, giving me the first full picture I had had of the situation since her assault upon me.

The driver urged the restive horses forward just as he who had leaped aboard behind him raised a pistol to shoot at us. Seeing that, I raised my own and fired at him. I did not know then whether I had hit him, but he pulled back, leaving the driver exposed. I set myself to fire again with my second pistol just as the horses pulled the wagon past me, removing the driver from my sight. But then, from behind me, was a final shot discharged. I looked round me and saw that it had come from Constable Perkins, who stood coolly, his arm still outstretched, the pistol in his hand still smoking.

We waited, holding our breath as one for a long moment as the horses plunged onward past Mr. Bilbo’s coach and toward Hart Street. We knew that if it made the turn in good order, then it was under control. If, on the other hand, it did not, then whoever held the reins was badly wounded, dead, or dying. And as one, we heaved a sigh of disappointment as it sailed round the corner like a frigate on wheels.

Though Sir John was reasonably pleased to have four of the robber band (including the now-conscious Pinkham) under guard, and a fifth wounded on Lord Mansfield’s floor, he had little time for his constables’ reports on how it had all been accomplished. I, however, did welcome Constable Rumford’s call; he had wiped the faces of the prisoners with a towel and all proved to be white, except the wounded fellow in the house. Once Sir John had me in the coach, he signaled Mr. Bilbo’s driver that it was time to move on to the next stop of our itinerary. As the coach began to roll, I was caught in the midst of reloading the pistol I had discharged. It was a ticklish job at best — to attempt it as we bumped over cobblestones and as he berated me for what he called my “childish propensity for getting in the worst sort of trouble.”

He continued: “And what good did you do? One in your charge escaped. The other — a woman, if you will! — you had to beat senseless to bring under restraint. How much help did you, in truth, provide?”

Continuing in that vein, he filled the time it took to drive from Bloomsbury Square to St. James Street — not a great distance. I made no effort to defend myself, simply let him talk on — for what, after all, could I say in my defense?