The Color of Death Page 11

  “Then who has them?”

  “Mrs. Trezavant has them. I saw her take them along when she left for the country. Her maid packed the dresses and frocks, but she took the jewel case along in her own hand. I saw her take it my own self.”

  This was more interesting than I had at first realized. I wondered where, with a few more questions, it might lead.

  “Didn’t Mr. Trezavant see the jewel case in her hand when he bade her goodbye?”

  “He never said goodbye. He just stayed where he was and sulked. See, they had a terrible row in the morning, and she was gone not much after.”

  “What was the row about?”

  “About money — what it always is with them. I prob’ly shouldn’t say so, but you’d hear it from one of the other servants, I’m sure.”

  “Did she object that Mr. Trezavant did not give her sufficient money to run the house?”

  (I was out of my element completely here, reader. I had merely heard that this was often so in marriages.)

  “Oh no,” said she, plainly amused at my error. “She’s richer than he is — or her family is. She’s got money — rents and such — he can’t touch, and that drives him quite mad, it does. He wants her father to trust him with a big loan, but she won’t beg for it as he wants her to do.”

  “So she took the jewels with her,” I ruminated aloud. “Now, why did she do that?”

  “Prob’ly she was afraid he’d sell them, or pawn them. She doesn’t trust him, and I can’t say as I blame her.”

  “You don’t seem to like him much,” said I.

  “Who would after he put the robbers on me?”

  “And what do you mean by that?”

  “I mean when they went in to force him to tell where the jewels was, he told them he didn’t know, but I would.”

  “That was not very gallant of him, was it?”

  “I daresay.”

  “How did you manage to convince them that the jewels were gone from the house?”

  “It wasn’t easy,” said she. “First thing they did, they put a stiletto up my nose and threatened to slit it.” I remembered the same threat had been made to Mistress Pinkham at the Lilley house. “See? Right here you can see where they cut a little.” She tilted her head back and pointed to a bloody scab that had formed at the tip of one nostril. It was not large; nevertheless, it was impressive. “How did I convince them? She echoed my question. “I told him the truth. I showed them where the missus had them hid and swore I saw her take the jewel box ‘way with her so as to keep what was inside from her husband.”

  “And they accepted what you said?”

  “They had to. It was the truth.” Then did she reconsider. “Well, it wasn’t simple as all that. One of them was all for cutting my nose off right then and there. But the other one, he said, ‘No, I b’lieve her.’ He said it just like that, and then he gives me a wink.” She grinned. “Proper Southwark fella. I could tell from the way he talked. That’s where I’m from myself.”

  “You could tell he was from Southwark?”

  “Di’nt I just say so?”

  “Not an African then?”

  “Well, he was sort of an African, I s’pose.”

  “What do you mean by that? “

  “I mean that if he wants to go round with his face painted black so he looks like an African, then that makes him jort of an African, doesn’t it?” It was evident that she strongly suspected that one of the robbers, at least, was no true African, but an imposter.

  She added: “The other one — the cruel one — he was a bit more genuine.”

  I took a moment to consider that, and then put to her another question: “Were there but two? Mr. Mossman said that four had come through the door.”

  “Oh, there was more than that by the time they were all together. They came in the front and the back. For all I know, they come in the windows, too. And they were yellin’ back and forth, pickin’ up the paintings right off the wall, gathering in the vases and dishes, even furniture. They were a busy lot — whilst they were here.”

  “And how long was that?”

  “Oh, ten minutes, no more than fifteen.”

  “And they were all black?”

  “Well, that’s the way they looked, anyways.” That was said with a wink.

  “Where were you while this was going on?”

  “I was upstairs with the two of them. They pulled me out of the kitchen where I was with all the rest of the help.”

  “And that,” said I, ‘was because Mr. Trezavant had told them you knew where the jewels were hid — was it not?”

  “It was so,” she agreed. Then, oddly, she averted her face as she might if seeking to hide tears — though she had not till that moment seemed in the least tearful. “Now he says I told them where they were, and I had a duty not to — as if I’d risk my nose for him!”

  “Oh,” said I, sufficiently moved just then to give her a pat upon the shoulder, “he was drunk and will no doubt feel differently in the morning.”

  “Only if the missus comes back with the jewel case.”

  I had taken a few notes through the interview. As I was about to tuck away my pencil, I realized I had not yet taken her name. I asked it.

  “My name is Jenny,” said she, looking up suddenly, a winsome smile upon her face (causing me to wonder at her quick recovery). “Thought you’d never ask.”

  But ask I had, and as was often said in those days, in for a penny, in for a pound. “And what is your family name, Jenny?”

  “Crocker,” said she, right pertly.

  “I may have need to question you further.”

  “Well …” she sighed. “Sunday is my day free. P’rhaps if you dropped by early in the afternoon …”

  “Or in the morning?”

  “I’ve an engagement.”

  “The early afternoon then.” I gave a little bow. “That will be all. You may leave with my thanks.”

  And that she did, casting one last smile over her shoulder just at the doorway as I waited patiently for her to disappear. I thought it time to seek Mr. Bailey that I might learn if he had another whom I should interview. I heard a door close and assumed (quite rightly) that Mistress Crocker had vacated the kitchen. I stepped out of the little cupboard room, looked about and, seeing no one, went up the stairs to search for Mr. Bailey.

  The prospect of seeing Mistress Crocker once again was not in itself at all unattractive, and I was sure that I would find enough questions to ask to justify a stroll with her in the park. Nevertheless, what interested me most was her morning engagement. Who might she be seeing then? I wondered about that as I ascended the back stairs. I could not say what it was had made me curious — a fleeting, odd, furtive expression, some subtle change in her demeanor. Yet curious I most certainly was.

  Once at the top of the stairs, I rounded the corner, which put me at the foot of the long central hall. From there I could tell by the babble of voices and the small crowd that had gathered at the far end of the hall that some great event had taken place. I went swiftly to join the crowd that I might learn what had happened.

  The first thing I noticed when I joined the outer circle of onlookers was that, so far as I could tell, all were members of the household staff. Then did I spy Mr. Donnelly in the midst of the crowd, kneeling over an inert figure — the butler, Arthur, of course. The two constables peered over his shoulder; each wore a look of concern upon his face. Then did Mr. Donnelly look up and his eyes went directly to me.

  “Jeremy!” he called, silencing the buzz of the spectators. “Come forward to me here.”

  I did as he directed, squeezing between Mr. Mossman — the porter — and a large woman who must have been the cook. I knelt across from Mr. Donnelly and looked down at the butler, not quite knowing what to expect.

  “This man is alive,” said Mr. Donnelly to me.

  He certainly did not appear to be. His eyes were still shut and the corners of his mouth were pulled back in the same grimace I had se
en before. In fact, in every particular he appeared just as he had earlier.

  “I know he does not seem so, but you must take my word for it. I’ve held a looking glass to his mouth, and each time I’ve done so, it’s been clouded.”

  “Not a heart stoppage then?”

  “No, no, apoplexy rather. I must get him to St. Bartholomew’s. Now, I have just learned that the Trezavant’s coach and four is at their country home in Sussex. Could you go quickly to the Bilbo residence and ask the loan of their coach and team, driver and all? Explain the situation and put it to them that it would be a great favor to Sir John.”

  “They will not hesitate, I’m sure.”

  “Then go swiftly,” said the surgeon.

  “Like the wind,” said I, jumping to my feet. Then I pushed my way to the door, and a moment later I was in Little Jermyn Street, running for St. James.

  Indeed they did not hesitate at the Bilbo house. Mr. Burnham answered my knock on the door again and, as he had before, looked as if he had just returned from a long outing. He brought me inside and to the coachmen who were witting about in the kitchen, drinking tea. I made my appeal to them, and the driver rose, declaring that they had over an hour before they were to collect Mr. Bilbo. “Why not do a good turn for some good soul?”

  “The horses need a proper run, anyways,” said the footman.

  And so, reader, the horses had their run. At a gallop, they delivered poor Arthur to the hospital, as Mr. Donnelly and I held on to him, steadying him as the coach rocked back and forth on the cobblestones.

  Mr. Donnelly remained at St. Bartholomew’s in order to discuss what might be done for the patient in the way of treatment (apparently very little). But I was whisked off to Bow Street, riding atop the coach by invitation, holding on for dear life yet enjoying the journey far more than earlier.

  Next morning, having eaten my own breakfast, I took the tray Annie had prepared for Sir John up to his bedroom. I thought to wake him with a cup of hot tea, but when I entered the room, I found him awake and sitting up in bed. How long had he been so?

  “Ah,” said he as I crossed the threshold, “Jeremy, is it? Come in, come in. I’ve been waiting for you.”

  “Oh? How long have you been awake?”

  “I’ve no idea, really. But I understand from Kate that there was another robbery last night of the kind that took place at Lord Lilley’s, and that you answered her call and went out in my place.”

  “That’s correct, sir.” Setting down the tray before him, I busied myself pouring the cup full of tea from the small clay pot that Annie had supplied. I put it in his hands and waited as he sipped from it. Then I found for him an empty spot on the tray that he might set the cup down.

  “I wish I had been there,” said he, “for as you know, there is much to be learned at the scene of the crime when memories are fresh. Nevertheless, I trust you, and you have otherwise been proceeding with the investigation, have you not?”

  “I have, sir. If you wish me to tell you how it progresses — ”

  “No, no,” said he, waving me to silence, “report only when you are ready. I do, however, need a few details regarding last night’s robbery. First of all, who was it that was robbed?”

  “The home of Mr. Thomas Trezavant.”

  “The coroner? Oh, dear God. I’ll be hearing much about this, I’m sure. Was he present? Did he meet the robbers?”

  “Yes sir, he met them and said they were cruel black buggers, which indicated to me that he had been tortured in some way. I saw no evidence of this, however, and I must say he was quite drunk when he said it.”

  “He was, was he? To what purpose did they torture him — if indeed he was tortured?”

  “Probably to force him to reveal where his wife’s jewels were hidden.”

  “She was not present?”

  “No, Sir John, she had left much earlier after a considerable row, and she took the jewels with her that Mr. Trezavant might not sell or pawn them.”

  “She — whatl Jeremy, this seems a bit more complicated then I had supposed. I think you had better tell it to me right from the beginning.

  Leave nothing out. Let me be the judge of what details may be dispensed with.”

  And that was indeed what I did. It took the better part of an hour to tell the story complete, and even then I omitted the altercation between Mr. Patley and me. During a good bit of the time, Sir John ate happily away at his breakfast, munching his bread and butter and crunching his bacon. Breakfast aside, he gave me his full attention.

  When I had concluded, he nodded but said not a word for some time. He seemed to be considering all that I had told him. At last he spoke forth: “And so to sum up, Jeremy, the assault upon the Trezavant residence was quite like the one upon Lord Lilley’s, except that a woman pled that the door be opened, rather than the male who, a couple of days before, described the terrible carriage wreck in St. James Street.”

  “That would seem to be so, sir.”

  “Yet you only managed to talk with three at the house: the porter, who had been there when the robbers battered their way inside; the upstairs maid, who told you tales of the connubial difficulties of her master and mistress; and finally, Mr. Trezavant himself, who could tell you little because of his drunken state. Am I correct?”

  When it was put thus, I had to admit that it sounded rather like I had wasted my time there. I hadn’t felt so at the time. “Well, Sir John, I thought it significant that Mistress Crocker gave it as her opinion that at least one of the Africans was not truly what he seemed to be. In a way, I thought that the most important matter to come out of my interrogations. You yourself asked those you talked to at the Lilley residence if the robbers seemed truly to be what they seemed.”

  “And all of them,” said Sir John, “agreed that the black men did indeed seem to be black. Only she — your Mistress Crocker — gave it as her opinion that one of them was not. And after all, Jeremy, it was only an opinion”

  “True enough,” said I, “but all those who agreed that the robbers were indeed black were likewise giving that only as their opinion.”

  “Hmmm.” The expression which appeared on Sir John’s face was one of exasperation. “I fear that this discussion could be carried on ad infinitum, and there is really no need to prolong it since there is no way to prove one of us right and the other wrong. But I have an idea.” And there, reader, he halted, somehow giving the impression that he believed that having said this much he had said enough.

  I sighed. “And what is the idea, Sir John?”

  “I shall consult with Mr. Burnham.”

  His reply puzzled me somewhat. “I don’t quite follow, sir,” I confessed.

  “Why, it’s simple enough. Why are we at such a disadvantage — not to say a loss — with this case?” It was merely a rhetorical question. He plunged on: “Because, Jeremy lad, we know next to nothing about the black population of our city. We know not their number, nor their customs and habits, nor their tendencies toward criminality — as I said, we know next to nothing. Yet we do know one who is a member of that group by virtue of the color of his skin. That one, of course, is Robert Burnham, teacher to your friend Bunkins, and to our own Annie. I should like you to go to Mr. Burnham this morning and invite him here. Persuade him to come to us for a visit.”

  “I doubt he will come until he has finished his morning reading session with his two scholars,” said I. “Shall I bring him up here to your bedroom?”

  “Oh, by no means. I’m feeling stronger today. I shall remain downstairs after my court session and simply wait for him in my chambers and receive him there. That would be far more proper, don’t you think? He, as I recall, is one who likes to see the proprieties given strict observance.”

  And so it was that I set out for Black Jack Bilbo’s residence at mid-morning, after having washed up and scrubbed down our quarters above the stairs. My last task of the morning was to give Sir John any assistance he might require in dressing (which was not much);
when he retired at night, his clothes for the next day were laid out in strict order by Lady Fielding so that he might dress himself in the morning. Occasionally his shirt or his waistcoat was buttoned crooked or his hose needed hitching. When I was not about to provide these finishing touches, Mr. Marsden attended to them. Once a few adjustments had been made, Sir John and I descended the stairs together. I left him with his clerk as they began their daily discussion of the court docket.

  There was yet time enough left so that there was no need to hurry to St. James Street, and indeed I did not hurry. The great early morning rush of workers to their work had ended some time before. And while one could hardly say that the streets were empty of pedestrians (the streets of London were never empty), it was nevertheless possible to amble the distance without fear of being buffeted and bumped from either side, or having one’s heels trod upon.

  My pace had slowed because I was deep in thought. I frowned and fretted as I went, trying to think of what step might next be taken in the investigation. While I was not yet at an impasse, it seemed to me I was somewhat limited. I must wait until Mr. Martinez and Mr. Humber had information for me — if indeed they would have information to give. I had, however, done nothing to explore one avenue of investigation: I saw that I must learn something of Walter Travis, the porter who had been murdered during the raid upon the Lilley residence. But what could be learned — and how? I gave some thought to that, and promised myself to give it more once things had quietened down a bit — but would they ever? I began to appreciate the utility of those long hours that Sir John spent alone and in the dark in that little room off his bedroom which he called his study. There, I realized, was where he conducted his investigations; that was where he fit the pieces of the puzzle together.

  Thus did my thoughts run as I made my way to the Bilbo residence. There were shops at one end of St. James Street — and beyond them the grand houses, of which Black Jack’s was indeed one of the grandest. It was, however, not the best kept, for as he did not employ a butler, neither did he keep a gardener on his household staff. He thought both unnecessary. A fellow who worked in St. James Park came by from time to time to trim the bushes and do what needed to be done in the back garden. Mr. Bilbo dispensed with a butler easily enough by ruling that anyone in the house who heard a knock upon the street door was obliged to answer it.