The Color of Death Read online

  His personal disaster had made him bold — far bolder than he had been before. That he now had the opportunity to perform before an audience must also have given him encouragement. His four listeners had become eager participants in the show. They murmured praise for his last outburst as I sought the proper words with which to soothe his anger. Something must be said — that much was certain.

  “You must know that he left a message for Lord Lilley with one of the constables. He asked that none of the household staff be discharged or penalized,” said I.

  “I know he jaid he would make such an appeal, but why did he not come this morning and present an argument on our behalf to the master?”

  “Because, my good sir, he was shot down by one of the robbers right here in St. James Street in a dastardly attack. He, who nearly lost his life, is far more the victim of those villains than you, sir, who lost only your employment!”

  Was this how I hoped to soothe the feelings of this testy little man? Not likely, I fear. After all, I reminded myself, the purpose of this visit was to get this fellow to answer some questions and not to scold him. And yet, I again reminded myself, when he sent me out to perform this task, Sir John had instructed me not to be shy — to be rude if I must — but not to be shy.

  Yet when Mr. Collier next spoke the nature of his response surprised me with its sudden change in tone and temper.

  “Yes,” said he, “well … I … uh … did hear something about that. How is he? I hope … he — ”

  “He will survive,” said I.

  “I am greatly relieved to hear it.”

  Looking round me, I saw that the audience, which had grown by one or two, was now similarly overcome with pious sympathy. Their faces had lengthened; their heads were bowed. But why not? These were servants, were they not? — as indeed so also was Mr. Collier. If I had spoken rudely because of my feelings for Sir John, then I had also spoken to him with the voice of authority. And he, as a servant, responded best to expressions of authority.

  I took a step forward and leaned over him in a manner somewhat threatening. “I have questions for you,” said I to Mr. Collier. “Will you answer them?”

  “Absolutely, young sir, to the best of my ability.”

  “Very well. Had you anyone on the household staff by the name of William Waters?”

  “Nooo, no indeed we had not.”

  “William Walters? William Walker?”

  “Nothing like that. No one by any such name was employed at Lord Lilley’s.”

  Having had Burley’s information confirmed, I went on to the next question: “As butler of the Lilley residence, you presided over the staff. When you knew that the robbers had gone, who did you send to summon help? To bring a constable? To notify the magistrate?”

  Mr. Collier looked at me, blinked a couple of times and said, “Why, I’m not sure.”

  “Give it some thought.”

  That he did quite visibly, screwing his face into a mask of concentration, shutting his eyes to exclude all distractions. He held this pose for a minute or more, quite impressing me with the intensity of his concentration. Only then did he relax sufficiently to say: “I did not send anyone.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “Well … yes. I was dealt such a blow to my head when the robbers came through the door that I was incapable of collecting my thoughts when they had gone. It… it must have been someone else sent for help.”

  “Or someone had taken it into his head to go.”

  “Yes, I suppose that could be, too.”

  “Mr. Collier,” said I, ” you gave Sir John quite a detailed report regarding what happened prior to the entry of the robbers — and I’m sure quite an accurate one, as well. I wonder if you would now put your mind to what happened afterward.”

  “Afterward? But… as I said, the blow to my head from the door left me a bit addled, I fear.”

  “I know, but I fear you must try.”

  He did try, no doubt to the best of his ability. First he told how he had been dragged through the house, then taken down the back stairs and dumped upon the kitchen floor. That, in any case, was where he came fully conscious. The staff — all except for Pinkham (who was later to join them) and the coachmen (who awaited Lord and Lady Lilley at the ambassador’s residence) — had been gathered together in the kitchen, where they were held prisoner by a threatening black man with a ring in his ear, a pistol at his side, and a cutlass in his hand. Mr. Collier then explained that from that point on, all that he could glean of the robbers’ activities within the house had come to him through his ears. He heard the footsteps of more men above them as they entered through the rear of the house. How many? He could not be sure; perhaps three in addition to those who had come through the front — perhaps more. In any case, the robbers were very well organized, for they did not stay long. How long? Only minutes — as many as fifteen, though perhaps ten would be more accurate.

  “And in that time,” I put it to him, “when was it Pinkham joined the rest in the kitchen?”

  “Only toward the end,” said Mr. Collier. “That would have been in the last few minutes.”

  “How many minutes?”

  He seemed to take offense at my persistent questioning. “I have a timepiece, but I did not consult it. I can be no more accurate than I have been.”

  “We shall let it stand then at a,few minutes.”

  Something had occurred to him. That was evident from the vague expression that of a sudden appeared in his eyes.

  “What is it?” I asked. “What are you now thinking?”

  “I am now thinking that perhaps I can say with some certainty that it was just at the very end that she was brought down to the kitchen, for he who brought her had a conversation in whispers with him who had been standing guard over us.”

  “Have you no idea what was discussed?” I pressed him thusly.

  “Oh yes, indeed I have, for it was then that they selected Walter Travis out and took him away.”

  “Walter Travis?” I knew I should know the name, but…

  “The man they murdered.”

  “Ah yes,” said I. (Glad I was that Sir John had not been present to hear me make such an error.) “Was he simply grabbed out of the crowd and taken away? Was nothing said?”

  “Yes, there was a good deal said. A great threat was made by the one who brought Pinkham down. He said that they were leaving and none should follow. And if we was to do that, he would kill this fellow who was now their hostage, as well as any who followed. Now I can’t swear to it, because all these blackies look alike to me, but from the sound of his voice I’d say he was the same one tricked me into opening the front door for him and his fellows.”

  “Are you saying then, Mr. Collier, that Walter Travis was slain because some of those in the kitchen trailed the robbers out the back?”

  “No, no such thing,” said he with great certainty, “because just as soon as they were upstairs and out the back, we heard the shot, and we knew somehow that poor Travis had been killed. For some time afterward, we waited there in the kitchen. Burley, the other porter, was the only one of us who showed any eagerness to get upstairs. He got on well with Travis. You might even say as how they were friends. I cautioned Burley, held him back till there was no point holding him back further. And then he was first one up the stairs. He found the body where we expected it would be — right there in the back garden.”

  “And you saw it there yourself ? ” I asked.

  “Well, yes, eventually. First thing I did was go through the house room by room to see all that was missing. I got to credit those black boys. They stole a lot in a very short time.”

  “How much did they steal? What sort of cash value could you put upon it?”

  “That would be difficult to say, but with the paintings, the silver plates, the Chinese vases, and all, I’d guess it at thousands of pounds — maybe close to ten. God knows what the jewels were worth — perhaps an equal amount, but likely more. I made up
a list for my master — or former master.

  Mr. Collier s listeners were brought somewhat aback by these estimates of his. There was a groan of appreciation, a whistle, and eyebrows shot up right and left.

  He then added: “I suppose it was because I was so deeply involved in assessing the extent of Lord Lilley s loss that I failed to send out for a constable. Just all of a sudden, not long after the robbers left, there was a constable at the door. I suppose that you know the rest.”

  I supposed that I did, for I had not then learned a tenet held by all interrogators: No matter how many times a turnip has been squeezed dry, you can always get more water from it. And so, upon ascertaining that I might reach him again through the staff of the Zondervan residence (“I’ll make sure they always know where I’m at”), I took my leave of them all, thanking Mr. Collier for his cooperation.

  My patient waiting paid handsomely when word came from Lady Fielding that Sir John was at last awake, and that upon waking he had asked to see me. As the three women puttered joyfully about the kitchen preparing a dinner tray for him who had not eaten for twelve hours or more, I hurried up the stairs to his bedroom, eager to tell him all.

  Yet before I could begin, he questioned me closely on the matter of food.

  “Did they give you any idea how long it would be? I’m altogether famished, you know.”

  “No sir, they did not,” said I. “But all three were working at it. You should not have long to wait.”

  “There was none of this nonsense about clear broth, was there?”

  “I did not discuss it with them, sir, but I know it as fact that Annie went especially to Mr. Tolliver’s in Covent Garden for a beef chop. I happened to glimpse it sir, and it’s monstrous large.”

  He smacked his lips as a child might. ” ‘Monstrous large,’ you say? Couldn’t suit me better. But quickly, if you can, dear boy, tell me if you’ve made progress in the Lilley matter. Give me your report.”

  Quickly was indeed how I told it. Because I knew I had much to tell, I had organized it well during the time that he slept. First I told of finding Mr. Collier at the Zondervan residence through Annie’s help and of the interrogation that followed. I made no effort to repeat question and answer through the entire session, but rather offered what I thought to be the most important items to emerge from my discussion with the butler.

  For instance, this: “Mr. Collier estimated the worth of all things stolen at up to twenty thousand pounds.”

  “So much?” Sir John groaned. “Oh, dear God! What more?”

  “Well, there was this, sir: According to Mr. Collier’s recollection of the time he spent in the kitchen with the rest, awaiting the robbers’ departure, the lady’s maid, Mistress Pinkham, did not join her fellow servants until the house had been sacked. Not until they left was she put with the others in the kitchen.”

  “Hmmm,” said he, “that was not the impression she created when she talked to us, was it?”

  “No sir, it was not. There may be cause for suspicion.”

  “There may be. Continue to look for her. We must talk with her again. What else did you turn up?”

  “Not much worth mentioning from Mr. Collier. However, I interviewed Constable Patley as he was coming on duty this evening.”

  “And what did you discover?”

  “I discovered that the supposed servant from the Lilley residence who notified Constable Patley of the grand robbery was more or less fictitious.”

  ” ‘More or less’? What does that mean?”

  “It means, sir, that while we must credit it that Mr. Patley was approached by someone and told of the robbery, we do not know the identity of that someone. The name given by the constable in the rather crude document which pretends to be his written report of the crime corresponds to that of no one on the household staff of the Lilley residence. Nor does Mr. Collier recall sending anyone forth to report the crimes of theft and murder; he said that he was too busy tallying up the cash value of the objects stolen to remember to do what needed to be done.”

  “And so,” said Sir John, “where does that leave us?”

  “In a rather awkward place,” said I.

  “And what place is that, Jeremy?”

  “Sir, I explained all this to Constable Patley — well, you might say that I confronted him with it.”

  “With what result?”

  “He admitted that he had made up the name.”

  Sir John popped up in his bed to something near a seated position. For a moment he was speechless — but only for a moment, for he bellowed loud and deep, “He what?”

  “That’s right, sir. He was, in the end, quite apologetic, but at first he insisted that it could make no difference anyway, since the information given was quite accurate. After all, there had been a robbery at the Lilley residence, hadn’t there? That sort of thing. He couldn’t, for the life of him, understand why you had to have the name of him who had brought the report. But since you had to have a name, he supposed that William Waters would do as well as any. The truth was, he admitted at last, that he had not asked the messenger his name, but simply given him directions to Bow Street.”

  “Shall we discharge the fellow now, do you think, or wait until he does serious harm to person or property? “

  “I think it best to wait, Sir John, as you will, too, once you have overcome your anger. Yet I have still more to tell.”

  He sighed. “Go ahead then. I would have it all.”

  “Well and good/’ said I. “The mysterious messenger went on, as we know, and arrived here at Bow Street. He knocked upon the door, and Mr. Baker came to answer it. The fellow, whoever he was, gave him the particulars in a great rush and said that he must get back to the Lilley residence, for he would be needed there. Mr. Baker asked only that his informant wait while he might fetch paper and pencil and jot down the important details. Yet the man refused to remain and ran off, shouting the number of the Lilley house in St. James Street. Constable Bailey happened to be bringing in a prisoner, and so he went off to St. James and collected Mr. Brede along the way. And, as you know, Mr. Baker — ”

  “Came upstairs and informed me of what had happened,” said Sir John, completing the sentence. He thought a moment upon it, then said, “And so I doubt Mr. Baker managed to get his name, either. Was there any sort of description of the fellow?”

  “About all they could agree upon was that the man was uncommonly tall. But Sir John, I do not believe that it would have mattered had either Mr. Patley or Mr. Baker managed to get his name, for it would probably have been a false name, in any case.”

  Suddenly alert to possibilities, Sir John mused aloud: “I believe I follow your train of thought. It had occurred to me, after all, that if no one from the Lilley residence went out for help, only those who had caused the trouble — which is to say, the robbers themselves — could have delivered the news. The point is, why should they have wished to do so? Were they so proud of their work that they wanted to invite the constables and the magistrate to come and admire it? I think not, Jeremy.”

  “I have an idea, sir,” said I. “By turning in a report on so great a crime as this — robbery on such a grand scale and murder, too — they could indeed be certain that you would be summoned. In fact, they went to some pains to be sure you were.” At that moment I paused for effect, took a deep breath, and continued: “Could it be, Sir John, that all that happened at the Lilley s was an elaborate trap which, baited, was set to bring you — specifically you — out where you would present an easy target?”

  “A conspiracy? “

  “Something of the sort, yes.”

  It was then that Lady Katherine entered, bearing his dinner upon a tray. It was more than a mere dinner — a sumptuous feast, rather.

  “There now, Jeremy,” said she, “you’ve had him long enough. I’ve brought him something should take his mind from those dreary court matters.”

  He whispered to me: “We shall speak of this later — tomorrow perhaps. Bu
t go now, lad. You’ve done a good day’s work.”

  THREE

  In Which the Investigation

  Proceeds and Another

  House is Sacked

  Next morning early I set off for Covent Garden. The greengrocers were freshening their stock to make it look like it had come in new from the market gardens. A few drunken blades staggered out of Carpenter’s coffee house, ending their night of revels in sullen silence; I passed them warily on my diagonal route across the piazza. My goal was prominent from almost any point in the Garden — not for its size nor garish decoration (it was neither large nor colorfully painted), but simply because it was the only one of its kind this side of Smithfield Market.

  Mr. Tolliver was a butcher, one who had violated tradition and perhaps broken a long-forgotten rule or two by opening his stall in one corner of London’s grandest vegetable market. There he had prospered. And if not always so popular with his neighboring stall-keepers, who envied him his customers, he was nevertheless well-liked as a man and well-respected for the quality of his meat by those who bought from him. And not least in that matter of liking and respecting him were we who lived at Number 4 Bow Street.

  He was a big man, as are so many who take up the butchering trade, and he had a big voice of a strength and volume which would carry it clear across Covent Garden, as he demonstrated that morning.

  “Hi, Jeremy,” came the shout. “And what brings you out so early?”

  I waved in answer, knowing that my voice would not carry so far. But once I judged myself near enough, I called out, “I’ve come for another beef chop!”

  At that, the heads of hungry men and women around me turned; they were laborers in the green market who had no more than heard tell of such cuts of meat. Not wishing to draw envious attention to myself, I was somewhat chagrined at that. I vowed to say no more until I reached him. When I did, I spoke at little more than a whisper, for Sir John was the subject of our discussion.