Part 15 (2/2)
”How old?”
”Wasn't young, wasn't old.” Doris pointed toward Ryan. ”Like him.”
”Did he have a beard?”
Doris nodded emphatically. ”Yellowlike.”
I felt Father sit up beside me.
”How was he dressed?” Becker asked.
”Like a sailor,” Doris answered. ”But he didn't fool me. No sailor ever gave me two sovereigns. A s.h.i.+lling if I was lucky. Never two sovereigns.”
”Forty-eight pounds all told,” Ryan noted. ”A man of means.”
”Doris, how did he talk?” Becker asked.
”Not like any sailor I ever met. This one was educated, he was. A gentleman.”
”Weren't you afraid? After all, he was lying about himself.”
” 'Course I was. Since Sat.u.r.day night, everybody I know is afraid. But he gave me two sovereigns.” Doris spoke as if that was all the fortune in the world. ”Ain't never seen two sovereigns before. Sometimes he used fancy words I didn't understand.”
”Like what?”
Doris searched her memory. ”Like 'rehea.r.s.e.' Didn't have the faintest. Turns out it means he needed to get us together in an alley and tell us what to say and be satisfied we remembered it.”
”Tonight we go back and get another sovereign,” a woman near Doris said proudly.
”Another one?” Ryan asked in surprise.
”Hush, Melinda,” Doris warned.
”No, tell me.” Ryan stepped forward.
”To make sure we did what we was supposed to, he said if we was good he'd give us another sovereign tonight,” Melinda said.
”Where?”
”In the same alley where we...” Melinda looked at Doris.
”Rehea.r.s.ed,” Doris said, pleased that she remembered the word.
”Tell me where,” Ryan persisted.
”Oxford Street.”
The name made Father stiffen as I held him.
”Can we have our tea now?” Doris asked. ”I was cold in them woods.”
”It's on its way,” Becker promised.
”Melinda, will you take me to where the alley is?” Ryan asked.
”No!” Doris objected. ”Then the gentleman'll see you and he won't show up to give us the other sovereign.” She scowled at Melinda. ”I told you to hush.”
”He won't see us, I guarantee,” Ryan a.s.sured her. ”And for cooperating we'll bring you biscuits with your tea.”
”Biscuits? Lordy, you treat me just like a lady.”
”Just like a lady,” Ryan agreed.
”Yellowlike,” Father said, startling me. It had been a long time since he'd spoken.
Everyone looked in his direction.
”Excuse me?” Ryan asked him.
”She said 'yellowlike.' The beard was 'yellowlike.' ”
Father surprised me even more by standing. His sobbing had made his face seem narrower than usual. His blue eyes were even more stark.
”Yellowlike. That's what I said,” Doris agreed, uneasy about Father's intensity.
”Which means not yellow but somewhat like it,” Father said. ”Could the color have been closer to orange? Perhaps a cross between the two?”
Doris c.o.c.ked her head one way and then the other, thinking. ”A little orange, a little yellow. Ain't seen many beards like it.”
”That's the color I describe in 'Murder as a Fine Art,' ” Father told Ryan. ”In the essay, I suggest that the color might have been a disguise.”
”Disguise?”
”John Williams worked on s.h.i.+ps that sailed to India. Some criminal sects there change the color of stolen horses with dyes, one of which is the color Doris describes and which I mentioned in my essay. I raised the question of whether Williams dyed his hair to disguise his appearance when he committed his crimes.”
”You're suggesting that our man dyed his beard for the same purpose as well as to imitate what was in your essay?” Ryan asked.
”I'm suggesting far more. I have trouble imagining that the killer grew a beard, a several-months' process, and kept dyeing it. Meanwhile, he would also be forced to dye his hair to match it, lest the discrepancy between his hair and his beard attract more attention than the unusual color of the disguise. It's all too complicated.”
”The beard itself is a disguise?”
”Without question. Just as he disguises himself in sailor's clothes. Perhaps he has a theatrical background.”
”An actor?”
”Someone who is an expert in changing his appearance. Make inquiries at shops that sell wigs and makeup to performers.”
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