“Keeps gettin’ better, don’t she?” said Bunkins with an approving nod. “That moll can really lip a chaunt.”
“She can,” I agreed. “Will they be much longer?”
“Don’t think so. They been at it a while already.”
“Well then,” said I, “I’ve something to jaw with you proper.”
“And what might that be, chum?”
“I need to know if in those days when you were a scamp you came across a fellow named Walter Travis.”
Bunkins frowned a moment in thought, then gave a firm shake of his head. “No, I can’t say as I did.”
“That might not be his true name.”
“Well, then it could be just any cod.”
“I know, but listen. He was about ten years older than you and me, a big man, six feet or more, and he was on the scamp himself. He’d put in a spell at Newgate.”
“Well, that brings it down to a few hundred.”
“All right, this may help. Travis came out of the clink and went into service.”
“You mean like a butler?”
“Not so grand as that — just a porter — but at a big house belonging to a lord, no less.”
“Would this be the cod who got himself killed at Lord Lilley’s the other night?”
“The very same.”
Bunkins scratched his jaw. “Now you’ve given me something to work with,” said he. “A scamp workin’ for a duke — I’d say that’s rare. That’ll give me something to go to my old partners in crime and jaw about — sort of thing they’d remember. With him dead and gone, they’d have no reason to keep a dubber mum. What do you want to know about him?”
“Well, his proper name, for one thing, and if he was in on the sacking of the duke’s down the street. And if you can get that, maybe you can also get the names of those who did the sacking.”
“Oh, I doubt I can get their names. I don’t know no snitches, and if I did, I got nothing to trade, if you follow me.”
“Yes, I follow. If you can get anything at all I’ll be grateful.”
And there we left it. No further discussion of Walter Travis (whatever his true identity) was needful. And besides, the sound of the harpsichord had ceased, and Annie’s sweet voice had stilled. There was naught but the murmur of voices in conversation coming from the room down the hall.
“They’re done,” said Bunkins. “Want to take Annie back with you?”
“Probably,” said I, “if she wishes to come. But I’ve a message from Sir John for Mr. Burnham.”
“Come along then, chum. No time to deliver it like the present.”
Following Bunkins down the hall, I sought the proper words to use to present Sir John’s invitation. I realized that if I were to offer it in a casual manner, he might choose to come at his leisure — hours later, a day later — or, knowing Mr. Burnham, perhaps not at all. On the other hand, if I put the matter to him with too great a sense of urgency, he might shy away, thinking perhaps that Sir John held him suspect as one of the robbery crew. Mr. Martinez, whom Sir John has known for years, leaped to a similar conclusion, and probably because of the crude manner in which I put the matter to him. You must be discreet, I instructed myself, yet not too discreet — direct but not blunt.
In short, I instructed myself well. The question I asked myself later was why I had not followed my instructions.
“Uh, Mr. Burnham,” said I, approaching him with a smile upon my face, “I have an invitation to extend to you from Sir John.”
“Why, what a pleasant surprise,” said he, returning my smile. “What is the nature of the invitation? Is it for dinner? For supper?”
“Neither, I fear. He wishes you to come to him after his court session is done.”
“To ask me a few questions?”
“Well … yes. I suppose he will do that.”
“About the recent robberies which were supposedly done by men of my color?”
“Uh … some questions about that, and some questions about other matters of a more general nature.”
“Hmmm,” said Mr. Burnham, considering the matter. “Have I a choice?”
“Of course,” said I. “You may come or not, as you wish. But Sir John wishes earnestly to speak with you, and since, because of his wound, he cannot come to you, he hoped you might come to him.”
“If that is the case, then I should be most happy to come.” He said it with a great dazzling smile, thus relieving me considerably.
Of our return to Bow Street, there is but one event worthy of report. It so happened that we chose a route which led us down Little Jermyn Street and past the Trezavant residence. Was it my thought to do so? I hope it was not, for had we but taken another route, we should have thereby avoided a good deal of trouble and a bit of suffering, as well.
We went down the broad walkway, the three of us — Mr. Burnham to the outside, I to the inside, and Annie between us. As I recall, we talked of a number of matters along the way, and I believe that as it happened we were discussing the robbery which had taken place on that very street. I noted that just ahead of us a hackney was stopped before the Trezavant house. I called the attention of my companions to this circumstance, and we fell silent as we approached the place. And it was a good thing that we did so, for just as we were about to pass, the door to the house opened and out came Mr. Thomas Trezavant. He moved ponderously down the stairs, shifting his great weight with care from one step to the next until he reached the bottom. There he planted his feet firmly and looked at us as we walked by. In my haste I have written that he looked at “us.” Not so. He stared openly and in a most hostile manner at Mr. Burnham and at him alone. Even when I attempted to divert Mr. Trezavant’s attention by greeting him in a bright and friendly way, he stared on, acknowledging me only with a grunt.
Not a word passed among the three of us until we were well out of earshot. But then Annie broke the silence, saying, “Did you ever see such a look as he gave you, Mr. Burnham? If looks could kill, you’d be lying dead before his front door.”
“Indeed,” said Mr. Burnham. “He seems to have blamed the entire race for his misfortune.”
We talked of it a bit more as we walked on, but by the time we reached St. James Square, we were on to more pleasant matters. Though I cannot speak for the other two, I had quite forgotten the incident by the time we reached Number 4 Bow Street. There Annie left us, climbing the stairs to the kitchen as we continued on to meet Sir John in his chambers. Mr. Burnham was openly interested in the area named by Sir John the “backstage” of his court — and particularly was he fascinated by the strong room. He scrutinized the two prisoners inside in such a way that he seemed to be wondering what felony they might have committed to have brought them to such a place. I greeted Mr. Marsden, the clerk, and Mr. Fuller, the jailer, politely and with a smile. Mr. Marsden returned it in kind; Mr. Fuller, who seemed to have cultivated a dislike for me, merely scowled.
Sir John was standing behind his desk when we passed through the open door to his chambers. He extended his right hand in a gesture of friendship.
“Ah, Mr. Burnham, is it you?” said he as the tutor took his hand and shook it warmly.
“It is I, Sir John, right enough,” said Mr. Burnham. “And quite flattered I am at your invitation. How may I help you?”
“Do sit down.” He gestured at the chair which he knew very well was placed just opposite him beyond the desk. Delaying a moment, he settled into his own chair, leaned forward, and said in a serious manner, “You may help me, sir, by answering a few questions.”
“As you like, Sir John, anything at all.”
“Mr. Burnham, I have a friend named Moses Martinez, who is a Jew. When I have questions regarding the Jews, individual or in the aggregate, I ask him. But as you know, I have now had a troubling matter involving those of the African race put before me. Since I know no one but you of that race, I’m afraid I must turn to you for such information as I need.”