“Well, perhaps a bit more than nothing — but not a great deal more. I presume you know where you were last night? “
“Yes — yes, of course I do.”
“And where was that, sir?”
“Why …” He hesitated — not so long as to make one suspicious, but long enough to cause notice. “Why, I remained in the house all evening. I was reading in my room, so I was. That’s what I was doing until Jeremy here knocked upon the door, looking for the loan of Mr. Bilbo’s coach.”
“When was that, Jeremy?” Sir John asked of me.
“It must have been near midnight,” said I. “Near it but not yet upon it.”
“But by then,” said he, “the robbers had come and gone, the constables had been notified, and Patley had gone to fetch you. Is that not so?”
“Well …yes sir.”
“Perhaps you could find one or two others who could vouch for your presence in the house during the evening, Mr. Burnham.”
“Oh, I’m sure I can.” It was said with certainty. “Master Bunkins? The coachmen?”
“They would do very well, sir,” said the magistrate. “I shall send Jeremy by the residence to talk with them.”
“And in the meantime?”
“In the meantime, what? I do not understand, sir.”
“Am I to be detained?”
“By no means, Mr. Burnham. Jeremy here made it clear that Mr. Trezavant was quite drunk, both during and after his home was invaded by that band of brigands. My chief constable, Mr. Bailey, seconded that in his written report. I doubt that in such a state he could retain the memory of his assailants. And quite frankly, even believing a sober Mr. Trezavant would call for a greater leap of faith than I am capable of. You are free to go, sir. “
Though Sir John could not see the bow Mr. Burnham made him, it was a pretty one; no mere bob of the head. Bending at the waist, the tutor dropped down quite low, and in this curious posture he spoke: “I thank you for your trust in me.” Then, straightening to his considerable height, he turned and started for the door.
“Oh, but Mr. Burnham, one last matter. I was about to pose a group of questions to you when we were interrupted so rudely.”
Stopping, turning, the tall Jamaican gave the magistrate his full attention. “So? What have you then, Sir John?”
“Are you acquainted with others of your color here in London?”
“I am. Though I have not sought them out, there are so many about that it was inevitable that I should meet a few. One or two of them I call friend and see from time to time.”
“How are they employed?”
“Most are in domestic service, though you may find them in many different trades and occupations.”
“Even thievery?”
“Perhaps,” said Mr. Burnham, “for with such a number of us in this city, there are bound to be a few lawbreakers among us.”
“Do you know of any who have that reputation?”
“No, not even those who are but rumored to have turned to villainy.
Let me say, Sir John, that it may well be that there are fewer Africans who have turned to crime than with other comparable groups.”
“Oh? And why is that?”
“Because, sir, if a black man commits an act of violence or a brazen theft, he will immediately be identified as a black man and be thus much easier to discover and arrest. Since this is no suppositional matter, and the particular Africans you have in mind are those who entered and robbed the homes of Lord Lilley and that man, Trezavant, then I would say that if they were truly men of color, I believe they would have been far better advised to disguise themselves in white-face.”
“Are you suggesting … ?”
“I suggest nothing at all, Sir John. I merely offer an opinion.”
With that, Mr. Burnham turned once again and made for the door. He was through it, and down the hall in no time at all. We listened to his footsteps beat a quick rhythm to the door.
Then was he gone with the bang of that same door out into Bow Street.
“Shall I catch him up, Sir John?” I asked him. “I might have the opportunity to talk with Bunkins before their afternoon class begins.”
“No,” said he, “let him have time to talk with your friend, Bunkins, the coachmen, and anyone else he might get to lie for him.”
“Sir? I don’t quite understand.”
“He is not telling the truth. That much is plain. Yet it is often the case that we can only get to the truth by listening carefully to the lies that we are told.”
“In what particulars do you think that he is lying, sir?”
“Why, I mean with regard to where he was last night. Oh, yes, indeed. But that does not mean that I believe, along with Mr. Trezavant, that Mr. Burnham is the captain of that crew of robbers.”
“How is it that you came to those conclusions, Sir John?”
“Well, I fear it’s little more than a feeling on my part. But my feelings in these matters usually prove out. In fact, they always do.”
“Indeed,” said I, puffing up a bit, “I, too, had a feeling about Mr. Burnham. Twice, sir, on those occasions upon which I visited Mr. Bilbo’s residence following the robberies, Mr. Burnham answered the door, and I had the distinct feeling that he had just returned to the house. He was perspiring, and he seemed somewhat out of breath.”
“So you share the feeling that he spent those evenings away from home?”
I do, yes, sir.
“Do you then believe that Mr. Trezavant has him properly identified?” “
“Not at all, sir.”
“Good. Then we are in agreement. Go out and talk to them all. Listen to them carefully, and perhaps you can detect the holes in the tales that you are told; through them we may be able to wriggle our way to the truth.”
And so, having helped Sir John upstairs and into his bed, I set off upon a path that had become all too familiar to me over the past few days. I decided to alter it a bit, walking by way of the Hay Market and Piccadilly, and in this way I entered St. James Street from above. Had I not chosen to go by this roundabout route, I should not have come to the corner of St. James at Little Jermyn Street, where I encountered a familiar face and figure. It was none but John Mossman, the porter who had been present when the robbers made their spectacular entrance into the Trezavant house. He saw me, just as I saw him, and gave me a wave and a great “hallooo,” as he hurried to the place where I awaited him. It was a fortuitous meeting; he had news to impart — quite a lot of it, as it turned out.
“Fancy I should meet you here,” said he, upon arriving. “I was going on to Bow Street later today to seek you out.”
“Oh? Had you something to add to what you told me last night?”
“Not I, but another. The cook, an old girl named Maudie Bleeker, asked to see you, to give you a bit of information. It ain’t so easy for a cook to get away during the day, y’know, so I told her I’d go by the magistrate’s and put you on notice, so s you could come and see her.”
I gave a bit of thought to that. I was eager to talk with anyone who might add to the flimsy bits of information I had gathered last night; nevertheless, there was a difficulty.
“Mr. Mossman,” said I, “I should like nothing better than to talk with the lady, but truth to tell, I wish to avoid meeting your master because of a recent misunderstanding.”
“Ah,” said he, “well then you’re in luck, lad, for this very morning he went off to Sussex on the post coach.”
“But I saw him earlier boarding a hackney.”
“It was to take him to the post-coach house. Well I know it, for he asked me, would I go up there and have the coach come by here to pick him up. When I told him they wouldn’t do that, he was quite miffy, he was. That’s when he asked me to summon him a hackney coach that he might get to the coach house.”
“He was off to inform his wife of the robbery, I suppose.”
“Off to plead with her to come back, is more like it.” He grinned in open amu
sement at his master’s troubles. “I’m going now to haul back a grand vase of the kind his wife collects. It’s to take the place of the one the robbers stole.” He ended with a laugh.
“Well, since he is away, I will indeed visit Mistress Bleeker.”
“You do that,” said Mr. Mossman. “She’ll be glad to see you, and maybe what she’s got to tell will really help you some. She kept mum to me, wouldn’t say what it was.”
I thanked him and began moving a step or two down Little Jermyn Street, but he waved me back.
“One more thing,” said he. “What do you know of poor Arthur? Is he still with us?”
“Is he alive? Well, he was when last I saw him. All that can be done for him at St. Bart’s will be done.”
“Which ain’t much, I fear.”
“No, not much, according to Mr. Donnelly.”
“A great shame it is, for Arthur was a grand fellow. Never had a bad word for anybody. I don’t know what you 11 think of the new one.”
“New one? You mean he already has a replacement?”
“You might say so. A fellow come to the door this morning and said he’d heard of our misfortune, and could he see the master. He was already dressed up in butler’s livery and ready for work. I can’t say whether he has the position permanent or not.”
“No doubt that depends upon Arthur’s recovery. Hmmm,” said I, again imitating Sir John, “interesting, very interesting. Goodbye to you then, Mr. Mossman. I’m quite glad we met.”
We parted. I hurried on to the Trezavant residence, and as I went, I attempted to arrange my expectations in some pattern with what was already known. What would Maudie Bleeker have to say? Would it change much — or even possibly all? I promised myself that I would visit St. Bartholomew’s Hospital and see for myself how Arthur Robb was getting on; perhaps he might have regained the power of speech.
I rapped smartly upon the door with the brass knocker that was placed approximately in its middle. There followed a pause, and then came the repeated click of heels across the hardwood floor. From within came the voice of a man: “Who is there? Please state your business.” There was indeed something familiar about it — yet I could not immediately place it.
“Jeremy Proctor,” said I, raising my voice to near a shout, “from the magistrate’s office. I am come to continue my investigation.”
The door swung open, revealing Mr. Collier, who was, until a few nights past, the butler to Lord Lilley of Perth. I exclaimed at this, voicing my surprise at discovering him in this new position.
“No more surprised than I am to see you, young sir,” said he.
“How did you know to come here?” I asked.
“The word went out this morning regarding what happened here last night. It traveled all round the St. James area. I heard that the butler — I believe his name was Mr. Robb — was seized by an apoplectic fit and delivered to St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. I understood immediately that they would be needing a butler, if only temporarily. And so I simply came here and offered my services to Mr. Trezavant. He seemed delighted to accept them.”
“Did you tell him how your last employment had ended?” I asked him, perhaps a bit unkindly.
“Oh, indeed I did. He would have heard of it in any case. His only response to what I told him was to ask me if I had learned a lesson from the experience. I assured him that I had. That seemed to satisfy him. Such a nice man.”
“Well,” said I, “you’re a fortunate man, Mr. Collier.”
“More than you know, young sir, for Mr. Zondervan, the master of the house where you visited me, has sent word that he will return on this very day. And hospitable as were my friends on the household staff, they would not have allowed me to stay beyond this morning.” He beamed at me then, happy to share his good news. There could be no doubt that he was a man altogether changed from the one I had met earlier. He was buoyant, ebullient, and probably once again something of a lickspittle.
“But come in, come in,” said he, stepping back from the door and flourishing a hand in invitation. “How may I serve you, young sir?”
Stepping inside, I waited until he had closed the door to the street. Then lowering my voice, I said, “I wish to continue interviewing the staff.”
“Of course,” said he. “To whom do you wish to speak?”
For some reason, I was reluctant to be specific. “Why not bring me below stairs, and I shall talk to them as they become available.”
“Why, that sounds like a splendid way to accomplish your purpose. Right this way, if you will.”
As I followed him down the long central hall, I imagined poor old Arthur lying mute upon some bed in St. Bart’s. What was his future? Had he any? Even if he were to recover completely, it was unlikely that he would be able to reclaim his position in the Trezavant household. Mr. Collier would surely not allow it; he meant to stay.
We descended the narrow staircase and emerged into the kitchen. I looked about me and found three at the big communal table. One of them, an ample-bodied woman of about forty years of age, gave me a rather sharp look but offered nothing in the way of a greeting. Conversation stopped among them.
I turned to Mr. Collier. “This will do very well,” said I to him. “I thank you for your help, sir.”
“You’re sure then?” He smiled left and right, receiving nothing in return from those at the table — but undaunted, he smiled on. “I’m certain you’ll get everything you need from these good folk. I’ll leave you with them.” (It was clear to me that he had not yet learned their names.)
So saying, he left me, thumping noisily up the steps, as if announcing his departure in a loud voice — a little too loud, it seemed to me. A picture formed in my mind of Mr. Collier standing at the top of the stairs, his ear turned to us below in the kitchen. I remembered how smartly his shoes had sounded only moments before on the hardwood floor of the hall; no such noise had followed the heavy footsteps on the stairs.
“Who’re you?”
The woman whom I had supposed to be the cook had broken the silence with a loud challenge. In response, I put my forefinger to my lips in a call for quiet. Immediately the three at the table leaned forward, their attention engaged, their interest aroused.
I went to the little group and said to the woman in a low tone (though not a whisper), “Are you Maude Bleeker?”
“I am — so what would you with me?” She had suitably quietened her own voice.
I beckoned her. She rose from her place and obeyed my signal, following me to the pantry room in which I had interviewed Mr. Mossman and Mistress Crocker. The others turned to watch us, unable quite to fathom what transpired, yet not so curious as to remain. They began shuffling out as I shut the door behind us.
Once inside the small pantry room, I felt we might speak in an ordinary tone. That, in any case, was the manner in which I addressed her when I said: “I am Jeremy Proctor, here from the Bow Street Court. I understand you have something to tell me regarding the robbery.”
“You cert’ny made it here quick. Mossie didn’t leave more than ten minutes ago.”
“I happened to meet him at the corner of St. James Street,” said I.
“Did you now? Well, ain’t that a happy accident — near as happy as that butler comin’ along without an invitation to take poor Arthur’s place.”
“Do you not believe I am who I say?”
“Oh … I suppose I do. Yes, I do. I seen you in bad light last night talkin’ to Crocker and Mossie. You’re the same one. It’s just this fella Collier comin’ along after Arthur’s job when he ain’t even dead yet, that’s set us all off a bit, I daresay. Something strange about it.”
“It may seem so,” said I. “But I can tell you that I first met him at Lord Lilley’s in St. James Street. He lost his position in Lord Lilley’s household because he let in the robbers in much the same way that Arthur did.”
“I know, so he said. Still, it don’t seem right. I notice you took some precautions yourself — or ain�
��t we talkin’ where he can’t hear us?”
“True enough; I have a few doubts, as well. But please, Mistress Bleeker, let us stop all this fencing about and get on to why I have come. Mr. Mossman said you had something to tell me.”
“Shhh! If it’s truly him, and he were to know that I’d reco’nized him, then I’d be a dead one indeed.”
“All right, Maude,” said I, “just tell me what you have to tell me and be done with it.”
Clearly, she did not like being rushed. Her eyes flashed angrily at me, yet only for an instant. She regained control of herself, nodded, and proceeded: “All right, it is this way then. I’ll tell you what I know and what I think, and I won’t mix the one with the other.” She paused, unable for a moment to continue. “But where to begin?”
It did not take her long to decide, and the story she told began down in Sussex where, as she said, she learned all her cooking from her mother, who cooked for Squire Leonard, father of Justine (the future Mrs. Trezavant). He was the richest man in that part of the county, noble or commoner.
By the time Maude was twenty, she had learned all her mother had to teach her, and in fact excelled her in some particulars. There being no place in Sussex where she might exercise her prodigious powers as a cook, she determined to seek employment in London. Her widowed mother allowed her unwed daughter to go up to the great city, though truth to tell, she had great misgivings — and well she might. There was little employment in London, particularly not in the great houses where Maude sought employment. She had naught but a letter recommending her skill in the kitchen and her good character from a provincial squire, and that meant little to the lords and ladies — and even less to their butlers. She was, in fact, ready to return home in defeat, when, at the inn where she stayed, The Key by name, there occurred a great row between the innkeeper and the cook in his kitchen, which resulted in the departure of the cook, an Irishman of no great culinary talents. Maude Bleeker, who happened to be present in the eating room during the worst of the row, immediately volunteered to take the Irishman’s place in the kitchen. And the innkeeper, having little choice, installed her at once. From that day forth, she was a great success at The Key. Her skill as a baker was especially famed; tarts and scones from her oven became known across the city. It was not long until The Key, which was known, if at all, as an inn where travelers might take a meal if they’d no better place to go, soon became celebrated as quite the best public dining room in that part of London, which incidentally also had rooms upstairs to let for travelers.
The Color of Death Page 13
