The Color of Death Read Free Page B

Mr. Johnson, and disgraced herself — and managed it all with just a minute or two of idle talk? No, I could hardly say that, could I? And so all I said was: “I think perhaps you failed to keep in mind who it was you were speaking to.”
    “I think you’re right. Oh, Jeremy, what am I to do? To have the ear of Mr. Johnson and then simply to prattle on about what I had in common with him — as if he cared for a moment — and then to try to engage him in argument on the question of a pen name. What could I have been thinking? Samuel Johnson, after all!”
    “Dictionary Johnson,” said I, as we turned back on to Fleet Street and there joined the tide of humanity on the move toward Temple Bar.
    “Yes, so they call him. Just imagine what it would be to be the author of a dictionary of the English language!”
    “Well, he had assistants — six, I believe.”
    “But Samuel Johnson id generally recognized as its author.”
    “Insofar as a dictionary can be said to have an author — yes, I suppose so.”
    “But of course! Every book has an author. And poor Mr. Johnson ruined his sight in the great effort to produce his dictionary. Why, he is near as blind as Sir John.”
    “Perhaps, but I’ve heard it said he had an infection of the eyes when he was a child, as a mere babe. That may be why he must read with his nose in the pages.”
    “Whatever the reason, my heart goes out to the man.” Clarissa walked along in silence for a bit. I waited, sensing that she had left something unsaid. Then at last she spoke: “Jeremy, the next time it becomes obvious to you that I should hold my tongue, I would like you to let me know. Give me a pinch or squeeze my hand, or … do something, anyway, to pass a signal to me that I must stop.”
    “You say the next time? What about the time after that?”
    “Then, too — and the time after that, and so on, until I’ve mastered my tongue.”
    “That may take quite some time,” said I, merely meaning to tease. “Your arm may be blue from all the pinching.”
    “So be it,” said she. And, having taken what between us amounted to an oath, she set her face in such a way that she seemed much older than her years, and marched resolutely forward.
    Clarissa kept up the pace for quite some time, but eventually she slowed somewhat. Yet still, she said nothing. She seemed to be giving thought to a particularly troubling matter.
    After we had walked thus for a good, long way, she turned to me and sought my opinion. “Do you suppose,” said she, “that the study of Latin would truly improve my writing style?”
    Late that evening — after Clarissa had exhausted me through the day with her questions and comments, and following Lady Fielding’s tardy return from her board meeting, slightly tipsy from the duchess’s wine served at the luncheon — late that evening (to repeat) I was summoned down from my eyrie to the kitchen where Sir John awaited.
    “We must be gone, Jeremy,” said he. “Robbery and murder have been perpetrated in St. James Street. Mr. Baker brought the news only moments past.” In fact, just then I could hear his footsteps descending the stairs.
    “St. James Street!” It came from me as an exclamation. “Surely not Mr. Bilbo’s residence?”
    “No — but close by. Pull on your coat and grab your hat. We are to meet Mr. Bailey there. The new constable, Will Patley, was first on the scene, and I fear that he may forget all that he was taught about protecting the premises against intruders, the curious, even against the victims of the robbery themselves.”
    “There are some who never seem to learn those lessons,” said I.
    “All too true, I fear.”
    We went down the stairs together, he with his hand upon my shoulder, the two of us in close step. (He had recently taken a tumble and had become quite distrustful of even the most familiar stairway.) Mr. Baker waited near the door, in his hands a brace of pistols, holstered and mounted on a belt. I took them