Bruce Alexander - The Color of Death

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.