The Color of Death Read online

  The poor fellow — in spite of myself, I felt pity for him. He looked all about the room: at me, at the two constables, everywhere but at Sir John. The smell of fear was upon him.

  Finally, he said, “I heard it from Charles, who was the butler here.”

  “And perhaps not then, but eventually, you heard — from Mr. John Abernathy, whom you may know as Johnny Skylark, or more likely from Mr. Zondervan himself — the location of the jewels, your best opportunity for removing them, and the nature of your payment.” At that, Sir John paused. “What wad the nature of the payment, Mr. Collier? I believe you came here to collect it.”

  No response came.

  “Constable Baker, did you search this man? You had the right, you know.”

  “I did, sir. I found naught but a few odd pence and shillings, a linen kerchief, some bits of string, and some keys.”

  “No bag of sovereigns?”

  “No sir.”

  “Well, the keys may prove of some value. Have you encountered any locked doors?”

  “Not as yet. We found the front door wide open, but we’ve not been through the servants’ rooms.”

  “Well, let us do that now, shall we?” Then to Mr. Collier: “What say you to that, sir?”

  He had naught to say, but went along willingly enough. Yet I, on the other hand, wished to stay, for I had an idea all of a sudden — one which made perfect sense, at least to me.

  “Sir John,” said I, “might I remain and search a bit on my own?”

  “Certainly you may,” said he. “If you’ve an inspiration, by all means pursue it.”

  I took an unlit candle in a single holder and lit it from the candelabrum in Mr. Kelly’s hand. As they marched off together, Mr. Collier threw me a look of concern, while at the same time Sir John began discoursing on just how it was the location of the hiding place had come to the butler.

  “It was that poor child Crocker who divulged the secret to Aber-nathy, chief of the robbers, on their visit. They threatened Crocker, and she quite rightly gave it up. But Mrs. Trezavant had then taken the jewels away with her. It was a stupid place to hide valuables, anyway. After all, just above the cistern in the water closet — people in and out all day long. You cannot expect …” And so on.

  Sir John continued, yet I, though interested, set out upon my search — not for gold or paper money, but rather for a painting. That, it seemed to me, was the payment that Mr. Collier would have begged from Zondervan. He might steal for something from Zondervan’s collection.

  In truth, I believed that Sir John was wrong. It seemed to me that just above the cistern in the water closet would have made an excellent hiding place — though it should have been altered after Jenny Crocker had told of it. Had she also told her master? Had she confessed to her mistress? Had she breathed a word of her betrayal of the secret to the rude Dutch woman who served as Mrs. Trezavant’s personal maid? Perhaps not. Perhaps only to me. And Mrs. Trezavant had doubtless told Sir John.

  Furthermore, I believed above the cistern to be a good spot to hide such grand items as jewels because it was commonplace and indecorous. And so I resolved to look for the painting, if it be a painting with which Collier was paid, in the most ordinary places. I reasoned that the butler had not been long in the house when Constables Baker and Kelly came down the stairs. He had been found in the pantry, and so that was where I began my search.

  Looking round it, I saw that there were not many places in the pantry where one might tuck away a good-sized painting in its frame — and all the paintings I had seen in Mr. Zondervan’s gallery had been rather large. I looked behind the two barrels (one of apples and the other of potatoes), but there was no such object hidden away there. I clambered up upon the apple barrel and looked on every shelf, feeling a bit foolish as I did so, for there was not room enough upon them to accommodate any package so large. I left the pantry.

  Perhaps he had been longer in the house than I supposed. Why, then it could be anywhere. Perhaps I was wrong about the mode of payment. It might indeed be a bag of sovereigns that I should seek. In that case, he could have dropped it in with the apples or the potatoes. In annoyance, I began roaming the kitchen, throwing open drawers, looking behind doors, looking into every dark corner, even in such places as a framed picture such as I envisioned could not possibly be hidden.

  Then came to me an impulsive notion which struck me as fitting, but a bit unreasonable. Feeding the sink where dishes, pots, and pans were washed was a capacious and, no doubt, efficient lead cistern. What if payment had been left for Mr. Collier atop the cistern, just as the jewels had been left atop the cistern in the Trezavant water closet? What if, indeed? Well, were that the case, then the payment, if a picture, would have to be very much smaller than any I had in mind — but no matter, I thought it worth a try.

  I found a wooden bucket under the sink and pushed it over to what seemed a good vantage point, then upended it, making it an excellent stool. I stepped upon it and looked at what was there. Initially, I was disappointed, for there was no such object as a framed picture upon the cistern, neither wrapped nor unwrapped.

  But there was something there — rolled up — at the very farthest reach there at the top of the cistern. I stepped off and pushed the bucket still closer, then stretched to the utmost and managed to get a tentative grip upon it and pulled it off. I stepped down and examined what I had.

  It was indeed a large piece of canvas, but unframed and rolled up and secured by three separate bands of string. It was a good two-and-a-half or perhaps three feet high. And there was no telling just how much had been rolled up within, or what it might contain — but I was eager to find out.

  As in so many of these kitchens below the stairs, there was a great deal table set back a bit from the cooking space. It ran nearly the length of the room. It was here that I might unroll the canvas and see what it contained. I worked excitedly to remove those lengths of string which secured the roll. I had one off and was working on the second when I heard the voice of Sir John hectoring Mr. Collier as the four approached the open door.

  “Sir John,” I called out, “I’ve something here will interest you.”

  Just as he was asking what that something might be, Mr. Collier came crashing through the doorway, wide-eyed, angered, and expecting the worst.

  “How dare you!” he shouted. “That is not your property. I advise you to take your hands from it this very moment.”

  With that, he flew to me and attempted to grab the rolled canvas from me. Quite taking me by surprise as he did, he almost succeeded. Though a moment later, the constables were there pulling him away, there was no silencing him.

  “You’ve no right,” said he most petulantly. “That painting belongs to me and to no other.”

  “Just what is this painting?” asked Sir John. “Is it one of great beauty? Of great worth?”

  “Sir,” said I, “it is one of those I described to you that hung in the gallery in the floor above.” (I had unrolled enough of it to recognize the peasants at play.) “I believe this is what served as payment between Zondervan and Mr. Collier.”

  “A painting?” said the magistrate, surprised near to disbelief.

  “Mr. Collier values it highly.”

  “You understand only its worth in pounds and shillings,” said the butler contemptuously. “There are other, higher modes of valuation.”

  “Why, I suppose there are,” said Sir John, “just as there are other modes of valuating the worth of a human life. To most of us, the life of another would be worth a great deal, and to Jenny Crocker, her own life was of inestimable worth. But you took it, as if it were a paltry thing, did you not? You stole her life from her, just as you stole the diamonds, pearls, and rubies from the Trezavants.”

  “You accuse me of murder?”

  “What else am I to think? She ran out after you, suspecting what you had done, and you simply killed her in order to cover your crime.”

  “Where is your proof? “

&
nbsp; “Oh, we shall find a blood-stained knife in the garden that someone will identify as your own. Perhaps there is blood upon some item of your clothing. It could be, too, that one of the servants other than Crocker saw you depart for the back garden, may even be aware that the girl followed you. We have barely begun our investigation. There is no telling what we shall turn up.”

  Mr. Collier fearfully considered what Sir John had just said. He seemed about to speak when the magistrate himself resumed his reasoned accusation.

  “You should be aware, sir — though you may not be — that we successfully laid a trap for the robber band at the home of the Lord Chief Justice. We pulled in four of them — perhaps five, if another of them survives his wounds. Now Lord Mansfield is unlikely to show them any mercy, since it was his home they attacked, but if one of these can give witness against the rest, he might be given transportation, rather than the rope. But you, sir, you are in a position worse than any of those, for you committed murder to cover your theft. I see little possibility of leniency for you.”

  Now Mr. Collier seemed so wracked by emotion that he appeared near tears. Again, he seemed about to speak when Sir John spoke up.

  “Unless …”

  That single word gave him reason to hope. He clasped his hands tightly together and uttered a heartfelt response: “Yes?”

  “Unless you were to admit your part in the theft, convince me that you did not murder Crocker, and bear witness against him who did. If you do, then I may be able to save your life.”

  “I … I believe I can do all that, but …”

  “But what, man?” Sir John’s patience was near exhausted.

  “Can you save the painting for me, too?”

  “I can try.”

  “Well … alright.”

  And so saying, he told the tale of what had happened the night before. Sir John, it seems, was quite right: Mr. Zondervan and John Abernathy, alias Johnny Skylark, had informed him of the hiding place and had agreed upon the mode of payment, even told him when best to attempt the theft — that last because Abernathy would be waiting in the back garden. All that Mr. Collier actually had to do was remove the jewels from the upstairs water closet and bring them outside to hand over to John Abernathy.

  In the event, however, Maude Bleeker, the cook, caught a glimpse of Collier as he went out the door to the back garden, and she ran to tell Crocker, for she was aware, as were all the servants, that if the mistress’s jewels were stolen, Crocker would be blamed. That was why, when Crocker was found, she wore only her petticoat and shift. She had run out after Collier without so much as bothering to dress herself. There she saw Collier with the case containing the jewels. She did not, however, see John Abernathy come up behind her. He grabbed her, put a hand over her mouth, and then cut her throat.

  Collier’s voice shook as he described the horror he felt when he saw the deed done. I believed him, and I believed he did feel horror. He was not a violent man. Nevertheless, when the body was found, and Maude Bleeker threatened him with what she had seen, he told her to beware, or she herself would likely get the same as Crocker; that was sufficient to silence her for the nonce.

  “And did you mean by that you yourself would murder her if she were to inform of what she had seen?”

  “No sir,” said he to Sir John, “I meant it as a warning that Abernathy might have the same done to her.”

  “Did she realize this?”

  He sighed deeply. “Probably not. She may have thought that I murdered Crocker.”

  “But you are willing to testify that it was Abernathy murdered the girl?”

  “I suppose so . . -yes.” Then, realizing that might not suffice, he declared forthrightly, “Yes, I am willing to testify to that.”

  “All right, Mr. Baker, you may take him away,” said Sir John. “Lock him in the strongroom with the others from Bloomsbury Square. Leave constables Sheedy and Kelly here to secure this place. Jeremy and I must get on across the river to Bermondsey.”

  “But … what about the painting?” wailed Mr. Collier.

  “Ah well,” said Sir John, ” you really ought not to bring it with you into that band of thieves. We shall keep it for you, sir, until your future be more certain.”

  It did not take near so long to reach Bermondsey as I supposed it would. This was due partly to the lateness of the hour, and partly due to the speed with which we were conveyed there by Mr. Bilbo’s men. Though he did not resort to the whip, the driver did not spare the horses. He simply seemed to know how to get the most from them. And bouncing about as we were, there was little chance to talk, but what little Sir John said surprised me no end.

  “It was you, Jeremy, who caused all that to happen.”

  “Oh?” said I. “What do you mean, sir?”

  “He would not have given forth as he did, if you had not discovered that painting. How did you know to look for it?”

  “An informed guess, sir. He revered the paintings in that gallery of Zondervan’s, treated them almost as sacred objects.”

  “Indeed he seemed to care more for it than he did for his own life. Who painted it, do you know? Who was the artist?” I’ve no idea, sir.

  “Ah well, it would mean little to me, in any case.”

  When we came to the wharf, I saw a considerable crowd of people — and horses — gathered round an empty berth. There were five Bow Street Runners, a whole squad of the King’s Carabineers — standing at attention by their horses — a few longshoremen, urchins, and assorted dockside layabouts who had come out of curiosity. I described the confused scene to Sir John as we stepped down from the coach. Mr. Bailey spied us and hurried over, giving a greeting that was in itself not the least encouraging.

  “Ah sir,” said he, offering a casual salute, “we’ve a great mess on our hands, I fear. I only hope that Baker and Perkins did better than we’ve done here.”

  “They did quite well, thank you,” Sir John replied. “But what is the trouble here?”

  The trouble was this: Upon the arrival of the constables from Bow Street, the captain of the Dingendam quickly assessed the situation, sent off the last of the stevedores, and pulled in the landing plank. Mr. Bailey, as head of the detachment, was forced to negotiate for permission to come aboard. It became evident to him that negotiation was no more than a means of delay. The captain was waiting for something or someone, insisting that because the ship was Dutch, English peace officers had no right to come aboard and inspect the cargo.

  “That, Mr. Bailey,” Sir John commented, “is pure humbug.”

  “Just as I believed, sir, and I told him so in so many words — though my words was a bit rougher.”

  Nevertheless, the captain of the Dingendam, Van Cleef by name, continued to argue long past the point of good sense — until he heard something that caused him considerable alarm. Mr. Bailey heard it, too, and at first believed the noise to come from a coach, then a whole procession of coaches, for the sound of a goodly number of horses, their hooves striking against the cobblestones. It was the squad of the mounted King’s Carabineers with Lieutenant Tabor riding at the head. Whereas Captain Van Cleef had managed to hold out against Mr. Bailey and his handful of constables, just the sight of the contingent of mounted troops was sufficient to send him to the main deck, where he began shouting orders to the crew (which were, of course, in Dutch and therefore quite incomprehensible to all but them). He attempted to parley with the lieutenant, but Tabor would have none of it. The young officer simply assembled his men along the wharf opposite the ship, whipped a document from his high boot, and read it forth from astride his horse. It was, in effect, a threat in support of the constables from Bow Street; if cooperation were not given by the captain and crew of the Dingendam, then the squad was given permission to blow the ship out of the water (though how this was to be accomplished with carabins was not said). The order was signed impressively by Colonel William Trotter, Comm., Sixth Dragoon Guards (King’s Carabineers) and countersigned by Major Francis Hughes, Prov
ost Marshal, The Tower.

  The Dutch captain’s response was to call out further orders (in Dutch) and to make ready for a swift departure. The hawsers were cut; the anchor weighed; they began to ease away from the wharf. Lieutenant Tabor ordered his men to dismount. Then did he instruct them to pull their carabins from their saddle scabbards, which they did. They aimed, and they fired at the downward flash of the lieutenant’s sword.

  Truly, not much damage was done to the Dingendam by the volley. The crew had the good sense to duck, and their captain took his ship just out into the current. They might have escaped altogether, had they taken the tide, but once some distance from the wharf, he ordered them again to drop anchor. So there they sat in near darkness, not truly out of range of the carabins, but perhaps out of effective range.

  “How long has it been at such an impasse?” Sir John asked Mr. Bailey.

  “Too long,” he replied. “They’ll lose the tide if they wait much longer.”

  “It must be Zondervan who’s keeping them. I wonder where he could be.”

  “And where, for that matter, has Constable Patley got to?”

  “I ordered him not to let the Dutchman out of his sight,” said Sir John.

  “You don’t suppose he could have been bribed off, do you?”

  “No.” It was said with a certain air of assurance. “I don’t.”

  My own eyes, I believe, were sharper than Mr. Bailey’s. They may certainly have been keener than Lieutenant Tabor’s. With them, I spied movement out there upon the river. It was not the Dingendam that moved, except for a gentle bobbing as it rode at anchor. No, it was a waterman’s small boat, which made its way slowly but stealthily to the big ship. I walked out onto the wharf and stared into the gloom and was able, after a moment, to see that there were three men there in the boat — the oarsman and his two passengers. Then did I turn back to Sir John to inform him of what I had seen.

  He was not, however, where I had left him. I looked about, altogether unsure of where he might have gone, then saw he had been taken by Mr. Bailey to talk with the lieutenant and another man — not in uniform — who, even with his back to me, looked somewhat familiar. Indeed, he turned out to be none other than Constable Patley, who was offering his apologies and excuses for having lost Mr. Zondervan in the great crush of carriages and hackneys in Drury Lane outside the theater.