The Color of Death Page 9

  “Yes sir,” said I.

  “And should he ask you — or Annie — if I have been obedient to his rule, you must assure him that I have indeed been.”

  “Surely you would not have us lie!” said I, hoping that the impudent smile on my face could not be detected in my voice.

  “I would have you do as I tell you,” said he sternly. “All medicos are tyrants, and as tyrants they deserve to be lied to.”

  “As you say, Sir John.”

  “Now away with you, Jeremy. And tell Annie that if she does not hurry with that cup of tea, I shall likely be asleep by the time that it arrives.”

  I told Annie no such thing, for just as I made to go, she was there at the door, a large, steaming cup on a saucer in her hand. A wink from me and a nod from her, and I was on my way.

  I returned to the Zondervan residence in St. James Street in search of Mr. Collier, formerly of Lord Lilley’s household staff. I found him where I should least have expected to find him. The butler, who introduced himself to me as Mr. Hill, said that Mr. Collier had asked to see Mr. Zondervan’s collection of paintings, and he was in the room which was set aside as a kind of picture gallery.

  “He fancies himself an expert,” said Mr. Hill in such a way as to make it plain he thought Mr. Collier nothing of the kind. “If you but follow, I shall take you to him.”

  I was ushered down the long central hall to a room just opposite the kitchen stairs and the servants’ quarters. Then did he surprise me by producing a key and inserting it in a keyhole just below the door handle.

  “You’ve locked him inside?” said I, mildly shocked at this disclosure.

  “This door is always locked, except when the master is inside. That is as he would have it.”

  Then, throwing it open, he revealed Mr. Collier at the other side of the room, his back turned toward us, studying a painting with an intensity it hardly seemed to deserve. It was no more than a picture of dancing peasants — colorful, yes, but scattered, difficult to fix with the eye, poorly composed (or so it seemed to me). Mr. Collier turned toward us and nodded. Mr. Hill and I took places on either side of him and gave it our attention, as well.

  “It is very pretty, is it not?” said Mr. Hill in a rather airy manner.

  “Beautiful,” said Mr. Collier. “It’s a Brueghel,” he added, as if that explained all.

  “It must be very old,” said I.

  “It is over a hundred and fifty years old,” said Mr. Collier, “but how could you tell?” He turned to me, waiting for my answer.

  “People don’t dress like that anymore.”

  He sighed, signaling his disappointment. “No, they don’t.”

  I waited as he continued to stare at the picture. There were others hung about the room, a good many others which I liked better. I wondered why he didn’t look at them.

  After clearing my throat twice to gain his attention, I suggested that he come with me to inspect the pawnshops in Field Lane, which were known to operate as fences.

  “Fences?” said he. “I do not quite understand the term.”

  “They are places which accept stolen goods from the thieves who took them and resell them to the public at less than their true worth.”

  “I did not know such places existed. Why are they not shut down? Why are those who operate them not punished?”

  “They have protection from the law,” I explained, “so long as they can show that pawn tickets were filled out for the stolen items and the operator of the fence will swear they were presented to him as the personal property of him who pawned them.”

  “Hmmm,” said he. “The law is indeed strange.”

  “At times it may seem so,” I agreed. “But if you accompany me and identify any items we see as Lord Lilley’s property, they can be seized as stolen goods and returned to him. It might indeed move him to invite you back into his service.”

  He drew himself up to his full height, thrust out his chin, and said, “I would not accept such an invitation if it were offered.”

  “Nevertheless, Mr. Collier, you are in a unique position to aid in the investigation. Since you made a survey of what had been stolen and drew up a list, then you probably know what is missing better even than Lord Lilley.”

  “Ha! I’m sure I do. Most of what he had he ignored. It was only when he had paid an exorbitant amount that he took any notice of an object at all.”

  “Well, then …” said I.

  “Harry,” said Mr. Hill to Mr. Collier, “I believe what the lad is trying to tell you is that you mtut assist him, whether it pleases you or not.”

  Mr. Collier turned sharply to me. “Is this true?”

  “Well …”

  “Oh, all right then, why not? It would do me good to get out for a bit, so long as you, Charles,” he spoke pointedly to Mr. Hill, “let me finish in here another time.”

  “Tomorrow, I promise,” said Mr. Hill. He was most reassuring.

  “Well, enough then, young man,” said Mr. Collier to me. “Let me get my hat, and well be on our way.”

  And so, in a short time we were in a hackney and on our journey to Field Lane. If it was far enough to justify a coach ride, the distance was even greater from St. James Street if measured in guineas, crowns, and shillings. We went from high to low in no more than a few miles, from luxury to misery. When at last the ride was done, Mr. Collier stepped down from the coach, looked around him, and shuddered.

  “Is this what awaits me?” he moaned. Not knowing the answer, nor even what, precisely, he had meant by that, I said nothing.

  In most ways, perhaps, it looked like any other street in London’s poorer districts — that is to say, no worse than most. (It was said that there were far more squalorous locations across the river.) Nevertheless, an air of desperation seemed to brood over the length of it, foul as the smell that rose from the Fleet River — a veritable sewer — nearby. Those who walked it up and down, men and women both, went with stooped shoulders and bowed heads; even the children in the street played listlessly, never raising their voices nor laughing. The four pawnshops stood scattered along the narrow way, two on the east side and two on the west side. Why they should be gathered there so closely, I have no idea. Yet there they were, and we were bound to visit each of them, and search them all through. We stood on Holborn Hill; I indicated the direction, and we set off to perform the task for which we had come.

  The contents of pawnshops do not charm me, and neither do the shops themselves, except in rare instances, interest me. I had, by the time of that visit, taken a sufficient number of robbery victims through Field Lane, so that I know, and was known by sight by, each of the four proprietors. There was no need for me to display the warrant I carried in my coat pocket. I went unchallenged. They said nothing but simply fell back and allowed me and my companion to prowl through the shop as long as we liked. Mr. Collier was, indeed, thorough. He went slowly through each pile, dug into every corner, and sorted through the contents of drawers and compartments. There was no need for me to call to his attention any area that he had neglected because he neglected none. I helped simply by knowing the plan of each of the shops and introducing him to storage areas he might not otherwise have known about.

  Thus we went through all four of the shops. We then went back to Holborn Hill where I waved down a hackney coach. As we boarded, I said to Mr. Collier, “There is but one more shop that I should like you to go through. It is on our way back to St. James Street.”

  “I have no objection,” said he, “though I hope it is not near so sad as that last street you took me to.”

  “Bedford Street,” I called up to the driver.

  “That’s said to be a dangerous place.”

  “After dark, perhaps, though not at this hour.”

  He lapsed into silence as we began our journey. He had traveled just as quietly to Field Lane.

  Our destination, of course, was the shop that had formerly belonged to George Bradbury, who served as fence to Covent Garden’s
most skilled and dedicated thieves. Mr. Bradbury died for his sins, and his widow sold the pawnshop, lock and stock, when she emigrated to the North American colonies. Since then I had called there perhaps two or three times to make the sort of search I had done more often up in Field Lane. The new owner, a man by the name of Garland, was too honest or perhaps too timid to engage in the sort of backdoor enterprise in which the former owners had engaged so eagerly.

  In any case, the trip did not take a great deal of time, and we were deposited right in the middle of Bedford Street, which put us directly before Mr. Garland’s shop.

  “Here we are,” said I to my companion. I climbed down and paid off the driver.

  “Well,” said Mr. Collier, emerging into the light and looking the street up and down, “it doesn’t look so bad.”

  “It is, as I said, a street like most in London until night falls and the villains and scamps come and claim the ale houses and dives as their own.”

  At just that moment, a drunken wretch came hurtling through the open door of a low place next to the pawnshop; he landed in the gutter nearby. The innkeeper leaned out the door and snarled a few curses at the poor fellow before retiring into the darkness of the gin shop.

  Mr. Collier watched the offender attempt vainly to push himself up to his feet. He turned to me. “You say it’s worse than this after dark?”

  “Oh, much,” said I.

  Pointing to the pawnshop door, I herded him forward and inside. The proprietor of the place, Mr. Garland, was there immediately to meet us.

  “We should like to take a look around,” said I. “The magistrate has sent me.”

  “I know who you are. I remembers you from your last visit,” said he.

  Mr. Collier had already begun his inspection, looking at clocks and vases and other bits and pieces standing about the front of the shop. It did not take long. He simply shook his head in the negative and turned toward the door, presuming that we were done.

  “We shall be looking in the back room, as well,” said I to the shopkeeper.

  “Well and good,” said he, striving to contain his anger, “but I told you once I do not engage in such illegal trade. Why will you not believe me?”

  “In a word, Mr. Garland, because he who preceded you had a long history of it. And his widow, from whom you bought the shop, put her very heart into such dealings. Of that I can speak from some personal knowledge.”

  “I’ll not ask what that knowledge is. I’ve heard enough about her — murdered her husband, she did, or so they say. Heard about it a hundred times, at least.” He shrugged and waved a hand dismissively. “All I know is she gave me a good price on the place, and the stock. And that’s all I need to know.”

  As we went thus at each other, Mr. Collier slipped past us and into the rear room, which I knew from my earlier searches contained most of the ticketed items in the shop. We followed him. And I noted immediately that Mr. Garland had done a great deal of work putting to order the chaotic jumble that earlier prevailed in the large rear room. That made Mr. Collier’s work much easier. He went swiftly through the room just as he had those in Field Lane. He lingered only at the two stacks of paintings mounted in their frames piled upright against the wall. Yet he did not linger long. He was done as quickly as I might have hoped. Mr. Garland was glad to see us go and said as much.

  It took little to persuade Mr. Collier to continue the rest of the way on foot. We were soon away from Bedford Street, and out on the Strand, and into the swarm of humanity. Crowded it may have been, yet it looked a bit better and smelled better than what we had left behind. I know that my companion noticed the improvement, for he commented upon it.

  “Ah,” said he, “how good it is to be getting back to my part of town.”

  “Your part of town, sir?”

  “Why, indeed! I may be but a humble butler, but all of my employment has been in that area in which you found me — St. James Street, St. James Square, Great Jermyn Street, the best addresses in London. There are few who would differ with me on that.”

  “Well, no doubt they are very good addresses, Mr. Collier, but would it be fair to say that they were your addresses? After all, sir, to take the most convenient example, Lord and Lady Lilley no doubt would contest your claim.”

  “Oh, no doubt they would.”

  “They would say it was their address.”

  “Ah, but I lived there, too, and ran the house.”

  “Does that give you the right to claim it as your own?”

  He considered my question. “Not the whole house, perhaps.” Then did he puff up a bit; his chin went up, and his chest came out, attracting curious glances from the passersby. “But the address was as much mine as it was that of the duke and duchess.”

  “That much I’ll grant, but — ”

  “You seem an intelligent lad,” said he, interrupting. “Let me tell you that I’ve been doing some thinking since I was thrown out so coldly from that house in St. James Street. I believe I shall avail you of a bit of it.” He paused but briefly, then plunged on: “I despise myself as I was there — far too eager to please, far too fearful of giving offense. I was an arse-kisser — or to put it less vulgarly, a toady, a sycophant, a … a …”

  “A lickspittle?”

  “Precisely! And why did I play such a role? Why, to curry favor, to seek recognition from my employer that I might be liked, well-treated, given greater responsibility. And, let us ask, who was my employer? One who was, in every way but two, my inferior. Which is to say, first of all, that he had a title, and secondly, that he had great wealth, more than he could ever spend in his lifetime.”

  “I do not understand,” said I. “Since he has a title and great wealth, how can you claim to be superior to him in every other way ? It may not be just, but that is how the world measures greatness. What other ways are there?”

  “Well … well …” he sputtered, “taste for one thing. I believe I told you, young sir, that Lord Lilley valued his possessions purely according to what he had paid for them. Nor is he alone in that. There is not one duke or earl in the realm who can claim to possess even a modicum of personal taste. If it were not for Italians and Frenchmen here in London, and an occasional word from a butler” — he did then give a mischievous wink — “their houses would go unfurnished and their walls empty. They are so utterly without taste that, left on their own, they would not know what to buy.”

  His long rant put me somewhat on the defensive. After all, I was well aware that our quarters at Number 4 Bow Street were rather bare of adornment. We had not a single picture on the wall, nor one piece of statuary, and the rooms were furnished with odds and ends left behind after brother Henry’s departure for Portugal (and his subsequent death). What use had a blind man for such? And Lady Fielding, for all her pretensions, was quite indifferent to the decorative or visual arts. In short, we lived well enough without taste.

  “How can it be so important?” I asked in a manner which I meant to seem dismissive. (I began at this point to peer ahead, searching for a place where I might conveniently part company with this pouter-pigeon of a fellow.)

  “Important? My dear boy, taste is more than important! Le bon gout e’ejt tout/” he declared, making a neat little French rhyme of it — then translating helpfully, “Good taste is all — everything!”

  We had come to the end of the Strand and the beginning of Charing Cross Road, a perfectly suitable sort of place for me to send Mr. Collier on his way, a smile on my face as I delivered a firm pat to him on his back. I had more than begun the goodbye ritual, in fact had even delivered that final pat on the back, when he looked me in the eye and declared: “Young man, I am disappointed in you.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”

  “No more than I am sorry to tell you. I thought, when I noted your eye roaming o’er the Vermeers and the Rubens in Mr. Zondervan’s gallery, ‘Now’, there is a lad who may not know much but who perhaps could be taught.’ But unfortunately …”


  “I really must be going,” said I, “but you’ll be all right from here on.”

  “Of course I will. But let us consider Mr. Zondervan. Now, the man has taste, no doubt of that — I should be the last to dispute it. Nevertheless, to keep his artistic treasures hidden away as he does and under lock and key, that truly seems most unfortunate. Who is he hiding them from?”

  “Mr. Collier, I thank you for your cooperation, but now I must return to Bow Street.” I said it quite firmly. “Goodbye.”

  “What? Oh, I suppose so. Yes, goodbye.”

  With that, I turned round and left him where he stood, separate lines of pedestrians flowing on either side of him. Yet after a few steps I turned back for another look. I caught sight of him, moving along now, gesturing with his hands so that I was sure that he was still talking, even though I was no longer with him to listen. But then the crowd swallowed him up; he had quite disappeared.

  He seemed perhaps a bit mad, pushed into that state by his rude dismissal. He had annoyed me, it was true, but far more than annoyance, I felt pity for the old man (he must have been forty or more).

  I had a great desire to talk about him with someone. But with whom? It did not seem proper to discuss him with Sir John or Lady Katherine. Annie, it struck me, would have little interest in him. That left only Clarissa. Well, why not? She, at least, would see the drama in it. I wondered vaguely what she might have to say.

  So you see, reader, the first day of my investigation may have gone quickly, as I said, yet it was not particularly fruitful. I vowed when I took myself up to bed that night that tomorrow I would do better.

  Though I could only guess at what time of night it may have been, footsteps upon the stairs to my room brought me wide awake out of a deep sleep.

  “Who is there?” I challenged the intruder.

  “It is I, Jeremy.” The voice was Lady Fielding’s. She came to the open door of my room and leaned inside, no more than a light form against the darkness of the hall.

  I rose up in bed to show that I was fully awake. “What is it?” I asked. “Is Sir John well?”