The Color of Death (35 page)

“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? “

“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, Provost 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.

“I do believe Zondervan hopped out whilst my horse was trapped among the coaches at the theater and unable to move, for when I came up to the coach, stopped the driver, and looked inside, he just plain wasn’t inside.”

Then, before I could get so much as a word in, Lieutenant Tabor made a remark which puzzled me greatly.

“You were never good in pursuit, were you Patley?” said he with a sneer. “As I recall, you eventually lost the track of those escaping prisoners even before it was properly laid down.”

What prisoners? How could you lose a track before it was left? What history did they share ?

“To put it simple, Sir John,” said Mr. Patley, ignoring the lieutenant completely, “I lost that man Zondervan.”

I could hold back no longer: “Sir, I believe I know where he is.”

All four faces turned toward me. Patley grasped me by the arm.

“Where? Tell me where.”

“Just about to the ship by now,” said I. “If you — ”

Patley released me suddenly with such force that he near threw me down. Then did he leap beyond the lieutenant and grab away the carabin from one of the troopers, who was too surprised to respond.

He shouted at me: “Come along! Show me!”

Having made the sighting and announced it, I felt I could do naught but show him what I had seen. We ran out to the end of the wharf together, with the lieutenant, the trooper, and Mr. Bailey calling after us.

“There,” said I, pointing out across the water at the Dingendam. “You see? They’ve already thrown the ladder down.”

And it was indeed true: A rope ladder dangled over the side of the ship. It appeared to me that one of the waterman’s passengers had already climbed aboard, since only one remained in the boat, and he now prepared to ascend the ladder.

I attempted to call this to the attention of Constable Patley, but he paid no attention whatsoever to me. He was setting up to take his shot, dropping down into a kneeling posture, resting an elbow upon his knee that his hand might support and steady the barrel. He seemed so completely prepared to shoot that I was quite taken by surprise when he bellowed forth a warning: “Stop or I shall shoot!”