The Color of Death (9 page)

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. But go now, lad. You’ve done a good day’s work.”

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.

“Was it Annie chose the last?” I asked. “It was a great success with him who ate it.”

“No, it was Lady Kate herself,” said Mr. Tolliver. “She had me pick it and cut it, as she’s always done in the past.”

“Then I’ll do the same.”

Hearing that, he hauled a whole rib section of beef from the locker and tossed it on the chopping block. He took a moment to check it over, then selected a cut somewhere near the middle. With a cleaver and an unerring eye, he broke the bone in two places, then took out his saw and began cutting away. “How is he?” he asked. “Kate said he’d collapsed yesterday after his court session.”

“True enough, but he seemed much improved even before he ate your chop.”

“Well, there’s nothing like beef for putting blood back into a man. He must’ve lost a good bit.”

“Oh, he did. The ball taken from his shoulder must have been forty caliber or better.”

“I’d assume then that he’ll need more time in bed. He better not try to hold court every day. No telling what could happen.”

“We’re quite in agreement on that, sir. I’ve a plan. I may be able to persuade him.”

“Well, good luck to you on it. Once he gets his mind made up, he’s a hard man to get to change — as we both know.” Then, having finished, he held the chop high. “There, Jeremy, what do you think of that?”

Returning, I found that Annie had prepared a breakfast tray and was ready to depart for her reading lesson at the Bilbo residence.

“He’s awake,” said she. “I heard him stirring and coughing, and then he started calling for his breakfast.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“I said that it would be there directly. It’s ready for him now. You can take it up to him, the way you wanted.”

“Thank you, Annie. Go along now.”

And with a nod, she took her leave.

I carried the tray up to his bedroom, where I found him on the chamber pot, purging himself of his night water. When he had done, he stood, dropping his nightshirt, and collapsed back into bed.

“Did you sleep well, Sir John?” I asked.

“I suppose I did,” he replied rather impatiently. “For one in my condition it is sometimes difficult to tell.”

“Oh? How is that, sir?”

“Without sight, how can one be absolutely certain whether one is dreaming, or having conscious thoughts?”

I mulled that in my mind as I set the tray down and proceeded to adjust his pillows so that he might comfortably sit up in bed.

“Is it so difficult to distinguish between the two?” I asked.

“Sometimes it is,” said he.

I waited, expecting him to elaborate upon that statement (which to this day puzzles me), yet he did not. So I lifted up the tray table and placed it before him. Upon it, I placed the document which I had drafted and written the night before.

“What is that which you have put there?” He reached out and touched it suspiciously. “Am I now reduced to eating paper?”

“No sir.” I laughed in spite of myself. “It is a letter written in your style. I should like you to sign it, sir.”

“And only then may I have my breakfast?”

“Of course not, Sir John. Here, I’ll put the tray before you now — bread, butter, four rashers of bacon, tea.”

“No, wait,” said he in a manner rather sharp. “Am I allowed to know the contents of this letter?”

“Certainly. It is a letter from you to Mr. Saunders Welch — ”

“Perhaps,” he said, interrupting, ” you had best read it to me.”

And that I did, clearing my throat and reading aloud. “Dear Mr. Welch: As you may have heard, during the discharge of my duties, I suffered a gunshot wound in the shoulder night before last. Yesternoon I conducted my magistrate’s court as usual, but was warned against continuing this by the attending physician, Gabriel Donnelly. And so I fear it is necessary once again to request your help. I ask only that you hear the criminal cases that would ordinarily be heard by me. The rest I shall simply delay until such time as I am once again in possession of my full strength and can resume my duties. Please give your answer in the space below. I remain yours, et cetera, et cetera.”

“Well,” said he, “this is interesting, is it not? I had mentioned my occasional difficulty in distinguishing between the waking and sleeping states. But there are always clews that help me to know. For instance, now that you have read this letter to me, I know that I am dreaming.”

“What’s that, sir?” Was this one of his tricks?

“Indeed, dreaming! For I know very well that in my waking hours I told you just yesterday that I would continue to hear cases at the Bow Street Court. I remember declaring to you the importance of demonstrating to him who shot me that what he did will in no wise interrupt the dispensation of justice. I thought I put that rather well, didn’t you?”

“Why, yes, but — ”

“Now, I know, Jeremy, that you are far too bright a lad to forget what you are told from one day to the next — ergo, I must be dreaming! Only in a dream could circumstances be altered so radically.”

He was making light of me, playing me for a fool. In my boyish way I resented that. Yet far more did I resent his reckless treatment of himself. Did he not know how important he was to us all? What would we do without him? How could London spare him?

“Yes,” said I, ” you made that speech about not interrupting the dispensation of justice, then you went to your courtroom, heard a few cases, then promptly collapsed.”

“I did not collapse,” he replied. “I merely suffered a passing spell of lightheadedness, as I made clear at the time.”

“But why not allow Mr. Welch to take your cases? It is his duty to do so. He should have come to you yesterday and made the offer.”

“Why not indeed! I’ll tell you why. He is, first of all, a bad judge, a poor magistrate, and no more than a few hairs short of corrupt. He would rather fine a murderer than free an innocent man, for there might be money to be squeezed from the innocent.” I had never heard him talk about another in such strong language, certainly neither judge nor magistrate. But there was more: “And as for your last point, Jeremy, you are correct — he should have made the offer. But he did not, which shows us what sort of man he is. That gives me another very good reason to continue to hear cases at Bow Street.”

“And what is that?” By this time the two of us were fair shouting one at the other.

“It should be obvious: Because he did not volunteer, it would be completely inappropriate for me to ask it of him. I will not beg from one such as he.”

“But … but … but …” I sputtered and fumed, yet there was no more to be said. I, at least, could think of naught. “All right,” said I. “Consider the letter withdrawn. The matter is closed.”

With that, I picked up the tray and delivered it to Sir John. “Your breakfast,” said I as I slammed it down before him.

“Would you pour my tea, please?” said he, apparently once more as unperturbed as when I first entered the room.

I mumbled some sort of assent and did as he asked. Once I had done, I set about buttering his bread.

“It was well writ,” said he.

“Pardon? What was?”

“The letter to that fellow, Welch.”

“What? Oh … that … well … thank you.”

“My objections had to do solely with its content.”

“Yes, of course, I understand.”

“Well, I hope you do. I do hope I’ve made my reasons clear. But sit down, won’t you, Jeremy?”

I grabbed a chair and pulled it over to beside the bed. As I seated myself, I noted that he had begun to munch upon his breakfast, a chunk of buttered bread in one hand and a rasher of bacon in the other. I waited until he had swallowed. Only then did he speak.

“First of all,” said he, “about that theory which you voiced last evening.”

“Yes sir?”

“Interesting, truly interesting, but I believe you are but half right. Where you err, I think, is suggesting that that huge theft was planned and executed solely — or even chiefly — to bring me forth as a target. Their haul from Lord Lilley’s was far too rich to be considered a mere exercise for such a purpose.

“But to me, it seems,” he continued, “that you are quite right about the rest. Which is to say, whoever organized this robbery — and there is something familiar about the manner of it — was certainly eager to use it to bring me there. I agree that he who reported it was probably sent there specifically to make sure I came. Well, I did come, and we know the result. And so I must ask you to stand again, pistols by your sides, through today’s court session.”

“I will. I’ll be there.”

“And what had you planned in the way of furthering the investigation?”

What indeed? I had given some thought to it — though perhaps not sufficient, so intent was I upon dissuading Sir John from sitting his court as usual. But I put before him what had occurred to me.

“Well, sir,” said I, “two avenues of investigation seemed possible, but I fear I know not how to pursue them — not in any practical way, that is. The first would be to find out what I can about Walter Travis, the man who was left dead by the robbers. If he had a criminal past, as Mr. Burley suspected, then knowing more of him might lead us to those who killed him — and perhaps tell us why.”

“A reasonable assumption,” said he. “I’d talk to Mr. Marsden about that. Though Travis is no doubt an alias, Marsden may have heard some stories about who left criminal pursuits for a life in service. The novelty of that would assure that it would be circulated up and down Bedford Street. A good story is long remembered. Oh, and talk to Mr. Bailey, too,” added Sir John. “He got a look at the fellow, did he not?”

“He did, sir — and I’ll do all that you suggest. But about that second avenue I mentioned …”

“Yes, oh yes, what is it, Jeremy?”

“It also occurred to me that if we could find the booty, we could also very likely find those who had stolen it. But beyond looking at those known to be fences up in Field Lane, I know not where to inquire, nor to whom.”

“Yes, well, to search in Field Lane you would need someone who knew the stolen items by sight — the butler would do if you can locate him again. Didn’t he make up some sort of list of stolen items?”

“I believe he did.”

“But in truth,” he continued, “I am not sure that you are likely to turn up anything in Field Lane. A theft of such enormity could hardly be handled by any one of the fences there — nor even perhaps all of them together. They are at best rather small enterprises. Disposing of Lady Lilley’s jewels, for instance, would be quite beyond them. Jewels are rather special.”

With that he paused a goodly pause, leaned his head back on the pillow, and gave prolonged thought to the matter. Only thereafter did he resume.

“This may surprise you, Jeremy, but regarding the jewels, you might best talk with Mr. Moses Martinez.”

“The accountant?”

“Ah well, he is that among other things — sometimes an investor and sometimes a banker, and sometimes a financial adviser. But with all else, he is a Jew, and the Jews do largely control the market for precious stones in Amsterdam. I mean in no wise to implicate Mr. Martinez in the theft, nor in the fencing of what was stolen, but he has contacts there in the diamond district and if he were to make some discreet inquiries …”