[Sir John Fielding 07] - The Color of Death by Bruce Alexander

Author:Bruce Alexander [Alexander, Bruce]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780425182031
Google: UeQDAAAACAAJ
Amazon: 0425182037
Publisher: Berkley
Published: 2001-05-15T04:00:00+00:00

SEVEN

In Which Sir John

Begins Interrogating

Mr. Burnham

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

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