The Color of Death (34 page)

At last, as we pulled up before the Zondervan residence, I said to Sir John: “You cannot say anything to me in criticism, sir, that I have not already said to myself a dozen times over.” And indeed it was so.

(I did manage to get the pistol reloaded, however.)

As we climbed from the coach, Mr. Bilbo’s driver called down to us, asking if we would be needing him further. “We’re right close to home here,” said he.

“I know that, driver,” said Sir John, “but I fear that we have one more stop to make this evening, and that will take us all the way to Bermondsey.”

“Ah well, sir, not that we mind. We was quite entertained by that show your lads put on back in Bloomsbury.” He cackled at his little witticism. “Ain’t that so, Charlie?”

“Aw, ain’t it!” the footman agreed. “I ain’t seen such fireworks since the king’s birthday. I swear I ain’t.”

Sir John did not respond. He was not amused. Instead, he turned to me. “Well,” said he in little more than a whisper, “how does it look hereabouts?”

“What do you mean, sir?” I was honestly puzzled.

“I mean,” said he, “do you see any villains lurking about? Any of our fellows?”

“No villains, sir, but I see Constable Sheedy posted at the door of the Zondervan house.”

“Then that means they have it secured. Come along, Jeremy, take me to him.”

With that, he pawed the air with his right hand, indicating that he wished to be assisted to the door. I put my left arm out, and he placed his hand upon it. Thus we proceeded through the open gate and up two shallow stairs, where Constable Sheedy greeted us enthusiastically.

“Welcome to your new home, Sir John,” said he.

“Whatever could you mean, Mr. Sheedy?”

“I mean, sir, it’s been emptied out clean as a whistle, and it’s for you, if you want it. Whoever moves in first can claim it.”

“Hmmm,” said Sir John, giving a vigorous rub to his chin. “You followed my instructions, did you?”

“Oh, yes sir, we waited till that black-faced crew was out of the house and away in that wagon.”

“And you waited till Zondervan had left, as well?”

“The big, tall Dutchman? Oh yes, sir, but that was earlier. His coach pulled up at the door, and he come out, and without a word to the driver or the footman, he got in and they took off — like it was all worked out beforehand.”

“I’m sure it was,” said Sir John. “But tell me, did Constable Patley follow close behind?”

“Oh, yes sir, just like he was supposed to. I don’t know where he got his horse, but he sure knew how to ride it.”

I was quite baffled by this. I had, of course, noticed that Mr. Patley was absent from the assembly of the Bow Street Runners in the magistrate’s chambers, just as constables Perkins and Brede were; but I half-suspected that he had gone over to the other side, for I was sure that it was Patley s voice I had heard during my last visit to this house. Could he have been a turncoat, a spy for the Dutchman? Could such things be?

“He got his horse, Mr. Sheedy, at the same place we got our coach — on loan from Mr. John Bilbo, down the street a few houses. But is that the full schedule of events?”

“Uh, no sir, it’s not. Just before you came along, that same wagon came back, the one that left with all that black-faced crew about half an hour ago.”

“Oh? Who was driving it?”

“Not the one who drove it out of here. That one was an old fella, kind of hard-looking, if you know the sort.”

“Yes, I do, I certainly do,” said Sir John. “But the old fellow was not the driver?”

“No sir, it was a much younger one — not one of the blackies, you understand. This man was just as white as you or me.”

“And what happened? Were you at the door then? Did he see you?”

“Yes, I was at the door, sir, and he did see me. And when he did, he just whipped those horses and took right off again.”

“You’re sure he saw you, your red waistcoat? And that’s why he ran?”

(The red waistcoat, reader, was all that the Bow Street Runners had in common as a uniform.)

“As sure as I can be about anything.”

“Very well, Mr. Sheedy. I’d call that an excellent report. Now where are Mr. Baker and Mr. Kelly?”

“Oh, they could be almost anyplace/’ said the constable. “They were going to go through the house room by room to make sure it was just as empty as we thought.”

“All right,” said Sir John, “we’ll find them. Come along, Jeremy.”

Eventually, we did, though not before we had searched through many an empty room, calling for them, hearing nothing in return but the echo of our own footsteps. I had never been in a house so big that was so empty.

“It’s a bit like walking through a haunted house, isn’t it, sir?” said I.

“I was just thinking something like that myself,” said he. “Ghosts, however, are not quite in my line.”

It was not until we reached the rear of the ground floor, and the stairs which led to the kitchen, that we heard voices; I recognized Mr. Baker’s, and with a bit of difficulty, Mr. Kelly’s as well; but the third, though familiar, eluded me completely.

Sir John and I descended the narrow stairway in the usual way: he with one hand upon my shoulder, and the other touching the walls as we circled downward. The voices ceased as we neared the bottom of the stairs. I must have taken that as a menacing development, for I suddenly found my hand upon the butt of the pistol I had just loaded. Yet I removed it when I saw that the voice I had failed to identify belonged to Mr. Collier, once the butler in the Lilley house and now the same in the Trezavant residence.

“Well, it’s you, Sir John,” said Mr. Baker. “I’ve got a fellow here you may know.”

“His name is Collier,” said the magistrate. “I met him at Lord Lilley’s, who discharged him following the first robbery. Jeremy met him again on numerous occasions, lately at Trezavants.”

“I guess I was right. You do know him.”

“His voice is quite distinctive — whinging, most irritating. I identified him immediately when I had heard it.”

“We found him hiding in the kitchen pantry,” said Constable Kelly. “There’s some food in there still — potatoes, apples, and the like. Maybe he got hungry.”

“Maybe he did. What about that, Mr. Collier? What were you doing in the pantry?”

The butler glanced left and right, first at Sir John, then at me, then back to Sir John. “Hiding,” said he at last.

“Come now, Mr. Collier, I remember you as much more forthcoming than that. Hiding from what? Hiding from whom? Surely you can do better than that, sir!”

“Well … I would, sir, but to answer as frankly as you wish me to would involve me in matters I do not wish to discuss. They are far too personal.”

“Too personal?” said Sir John rather skeptically. “Or might it be that in discussing those matters frankly you would incriminate yourself?”

Mr. Collier presented to us an expression of wounded innocence. “Why, sir,” said he, “I do not know what you might mean by that!”

“Why, sir, I believe you do,” said Sir John, thrusting himself toward the butler with such force that he came within an inch of butting him in the head. “I believe it was you who stole Lady Trezavant’s jewels.”

“That’s … that’s wrong. I did not even know where they were hid. How could I know such secrets of the household when I had been there but a day or two?”

“Because you went there knowing that secret of the household. It was all too convenient, your arrival just after Trezavant’s former butler had been felled by an apoplectic stroke — and so early, too.”

“I told you — ” Then did Mr. Collier realize his error and point at me, “no, I told him that I had heard the news on the street. Such matters are much discussed from house to house.”

“Mr. Collier, from whom did you hear it?”

“As I say, I heard it on the street.”

“From whom did you hear it?” Sir John’s tone was most severe.

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.