Bruce Alexander - The Color of Death

“What is it you wish to make clear?” I thought it likely she sought to be interviewed purely for the attention that it would bring her. Therefore I had determined to spend as little time with her as possible.

“I wish to make clear it wasn’t me responsible for telling the robbers what happened to the lady’s jewels,” said she. A bold girl, not much more than my own age, she was attractive in a saucy way.

“If it wasn’t you,” said I, hoping to move her along, “then who was it? They’re gone, I take it.”

“It wasn’t nobody,” said she with firm conviction. “They’re gone, but wasn’t ever stolen.”

“Then who has them?”

“Mrs. Trezavant has them. I saw her take them along when she left for the country. Her maid packed the dresses and frocks, but she took the jewel case along in her own hand. I saw her take it my own self.”

This was more interesting than I had at first realized. I wondered where, with a few more questions, it might lead.

“Didn’t Mr. Trezavant see the jewel case in her hand when he bade her goodbye?”

“He never said goodbye. He just stayed where he was and sulked. See, they had a terrible row in the morning, and she was gone not much after.”

“What was the row about?”

“About money — what it always is with them. I prob’ly shouldn’t say so, but you’d hear it from one of the other servants, I’m sure.”

“Did she object that Mr. Trezavant did not give her sufficient money to run the house?”

(I was out of my element completely here, reader. I had merely heard that this was often so in marriages.)

“Oh no,” said she, plainly amused at my error. “She’s richer than he is — or her family is. She’s got money — rents and such — he can’t touch, and that drives him quite mad, it does. He wants her father to trust him with a big loan, but she won’t beg for it as he wants her to do.”

“So she took the jewels with her,” I ruminated aloud. “Now, why did she do that?”

“Prob’ly she was afraid he’d sell them, or pawn them. She doesn’t trust him, and I can’t say as I blame her.”

“You don’t seem to like him much,” said I.

“Who would after he put the robbers on me?”

“And what do you mean by that?”

“I mean when they went in to force him to tell where the jewels was, he told them he didn’t know, but I would.”

“That was not very gallant of him, was it?”

“I daresay.”

“How did you manage to convince them that the jewels were gone from the house?”

“It wasn’t easy,” said she. “First thing they did, they put a stiletto up my nose and threatened to slit it.” I remembered the same threat had been made to Mistress Pinkham at the Lilley house. “See? Right here you can see where they cut a little.” She tilted her head back and pointed to a bloody scab that had formed at the tip of one nostril. It was not large; nevertheless, it was impressive. “How did I convince them? She echoed my question. “I told him the truth. I showed them where the missus had them hid and swore I saw her take the jewel box ‘way with her so as to keep what was inside from her husband.”

“And they accepted what you said?”

“They had to. It was the truth.” Then did she reconsider. “Well, it wasn’t simple as all that. One of them was all for cutting my nose off right then and there. But the other one, he said, ‘No, I b’lieve her.’ He said it just like that, and then he gives me a wink.” She grinned. “Proper Southwark fella. I could tell from the way he talked. That’s where I’m from myself.”

“You could tell he was from Southwark?”

“Di’nt I just say so?”

“Not an African then?”

“Well, he was sort of an African, I s’pose.”

“What do you mean by that? “

“I mean that if he wants to go round with his face painted black so he looks like an African, then that makes him jort of an African, doesn’t it?” It was evident that she strongly suspected that one of the robbers, at least, was no true African, but an imposter.

She added: “The other one — the cruel one — he was a bit more genuine.”

I took a moment to consider that, and then put to her another question: “Were there but two? Mr. Mossman said that four had come through the door.”

“Oh, there was more than that by the time they were all together. They came in the front and the back. For all I know, they come in the windows, too. And they were yellin’ back and forth, pickin’ up the paintings right off the wall, gathering in the vases and dishes, even furniture. They were a busy lot — whilst they were here.”

“And how long was that?”

“Oh, ten minutes, no more than fifteen.”

“And they were all black?”

“Well, that’s the way they looked, anyways.” That was said with a wink.

“Where were you while this was going on?”

“I was upstairs with the two of them. They pulled me out of the kitchen where I was with all the rest of the help.”

“And that,” said I, ‘was because Mr. Trezavant had told them you knew where the jewels were hid — was it not?”

“It was so,” she agreed. Then, oddly, she averted her face as she might if seeking to hide tears — though she had not till that moment seemed in the least tearful. “Now he says I told them where they were, and I had a duty not to — as if I’d risk my nose for him!”

“Oh,” said I, sufficiently moved just then to give her a pat upon the shoulder, “he was drunk and will no doubt feel differently in the morning.”

“Only if the missus comes back with the jewel case.”

I had taken a few notes through the interview. As I was about to tuck away my pencil, I realized I had not yet taken her name. I asked it.

“My name is Jenny,” said she, looking up suddenly, a winsome smile upon her face (causing me to wonder at her quick recovery). “Thought you’d never ask.”

But ask I had, and as was often said in those days, in for a penny, in for a pound. “And what is your family name, Jenny?”

“Crocker,” said she, right pertly.

“I may have need to question you further.”

“Well …” she sighed. “Sunday is my day free. P’rhaps if you dropped by early in the afternoon …”

“Or in the morning?”

“I’ve an engagement.”

“The early afternoon then.” I gave a little bow. “That will be all. You may leave with my thanks.”

And that she did, casting one last smile over her shoulder just at the doorway as I waited patiently for her to disappear. I thought it time to seek Mr. Bailey that I might learn if he had another whom I should interview. I heard a door close and assumed (quite rightly) that Mistress Crocker had vacated the kitchen. I stepped out of the little cupboard room, looked about and, seeing no one, went up the stairs to search for Mr. Bailey.

The prospect of seeing Mistress Crocker once again was not in itself at all unattractive, and I was sure that I would find enough questions to ask to justify a stroll with her in the park. Nevertheless, what interested me most was her morning engagement. Who might she be seeing then? I wondered about that as I ascended the back stairs. I could not say what it was had made me curious — a fleeting, odd, furtive expression, some subtle change in her demeanor. Yet curious I most certainly was.

Once at the top of the stairs, I rounded the corner, which put me at the foot of the long central hall. From there I could tell by the babble of voices and the small crowd that had gathered at the far end of the hall that some great event had taken place. I went swiftly to join the crowd that I might learn what had happened.

The first thing I noticed when I joined the outer circle of onlookers was that, so far as I could tell, all were members of the household staff. Then did I spy Mr. Donnelly in the midst of the crowd, kneeling over an inert figure — the butler, Arthur, of course. The two constables peered over his shoulder; each wore a look of concern upon his face. Then did Mr. Donnelly look up and his eyes went directly to me.