Bruce Alexander - The Color of Death

Did Mr. Johnson enjoy this? Was he taken in by it? There was no telling, for his face had become like a mask, one upon which a half-smile was fixed and whose opaque eyes were utterly unreadable. And so his face remained, virtually immobile, as the couple talked on and on, apologizing for their state of deshabille, praising his vast fund of knowledge, asking how he came to know so many words, et cetera. Clearly, they knew little about him — only that he still enjoyed great fame for his dictionary; that he had enjoyed awards, honors, and a pension for his work, even a sobriquet, “Dictionary” Johnson.

Although, through Sir John, I had met a few who had been touched by fame, this was my first opportunity to see the effect of celebrity upon those who lived in awe of the celebrated. Mr. Trezavant, who was said to mingle with eminent politicians, did manage to keep his wits about him. His wife, however, seemed to have gone quite mad. She would immediately improvise a dinner party in his honor — “just a few of our closest, dearest friends” — if Mr. Johnson would but give them a few minutes to dress themselves.

“I am sorry, madame, but I have just dined with Sir John — and quite well, too.”

“Oh,” said she, “what a pity. It is so seldom our home is visited by literary men. It seems a shame to waste your presence here.” Her hand shot to her mouth — a child’s guilty gesture. “Oh dear, I fear I didn’t phrase that very well, did I?”

“Think nothing of it, madame. Indeed, I’m satisfied that my presence here is not wasted. I am here as an observer.”

“An observer?” she echoed.

“Yes, I wish to observe Sir John’s methods of investigation.”

“Ah well,” said Mr. Trezavant, “as I declared earlier, there’ll be little need for an investigation.”

“Yes, you did say that, didn’t you?” said Sir John. “What precisely did you mean?”

“Why, I meant that my wife’s jewels have disappeared, and so has one of the servants. You must either find her, or find him to whom she delivered them.”

(Let me say at this point, reader, that I liked not the sound of Mr. Trezavant’s prattling; I drew inferences from it which made me uncomfortable.)

“Speak plainer, man,” said Sir John. “You’ve no need to withhold names.”

“All right then,” said Mr. Trezavant, accepting the challenge, “it is Jenny Crocker, the upstairs maid, who is missing. I suspected her the first time the jewels were gone.”

“The first time?” I yelped, unable to hold back. “That was when your wife had taken them with her to Sussex!”

He grunted a low grumble. “Well, yes, but she was always about upstairs and no doubt knew right where the jewels were hid.”

“But you had made up your mind she was the criminal before ever a crime had been committed!”

“Sir John,” said he, “I do object strongly to your lad’s tone. He seems to be accusing me of some impropriety.”

“But Mr. Trezavant,” said the magistrate, “I believe he raised a point worthy of consideration. Why were you so sure of her guilt?”

“Why? Why? Well, she seemed the criminal type. As did, let me say, that black fellow whom you dismissed so lightly this very afternoon. She may already have passed the booty on to him. I’ve no — ”

“Ah sir,” said Samuel Johnson to him, “there I believe I can put your mind to rest. Robert Burnham, to whom you refer, has been in our company all through this evening. We left him before your door not many minutes past.”

“You what! You let him get away?”

“Please, sir,” said Sir John, “I believe you are not thinking things through properly. Do not speak quite so recklessly. As Mr. Johnson has just explained, Mr. Burnham has been in our company the entire time.” He turned then to Mrs. Trezavant. “Madame, do you not have a lady’s maid?”

“Yes, yes I do.”

“Does she not know where you secrete your pieces?”

“Indeed she does.” She hesitated. “Well … it was in fact my maid who discovered the jewels were missing.”

Mr. Trezavant glared at his spouse in a manner most stern and disapproving. “You didn’t tell me that,” said he. “I thought it was you found they were gone.”

“It matters little,” said she to him, “for I trust her completely. And besides, if I had told you, you would have paid little heed to me, so certain were you that Crocker was guilty.”

“But… I … I …”

Sir John stepped in to put an end to this wrangle. “This is a point of some importance, madame,” said he. “When did she report to you that the pieces were missing?”

“Why, I’m not sure. I’d had a rather wearying day, and so I dressed early for bed. What time is it now?”

I glanced at a tall, upright clock in the corner. “Just on ten o’clock,” said I.

“About an hour has passed since then, I should say, or perhaps a little less.”

“Very well,” said Sir John. “Had she some reason for visiting the hiding place? Something that you had worn and wished returned to your collection?”

“Yes, a ring — a ruby ring with quite a large stone.”

“And where is she now, this personal maid of yours?”

“Below stairs in her room, I suppose. I sent her off to bed. She was terribly upset.”

“We must talk to her,” said Sir John firmly. “Jeremy, go below and fetch her. If she lies abed, then roust her out. If she sleeps, then wake her.”

“Is this quite necessary?” asked Mrs. Trezavant.

“Quite,” said he. “But you must tell us, what is her name?”

“Hulda. She is easily the best servant I have ever had. But she is Dutch, and her family name is quite unpronounceable.”

“Hmmm. Dutch, is it? On your way, Jeremy.”

I left forthwith. Remembering the way from my earlier visits, it took me but a moment to descend the stairs, yet that gave me time enough to reflect upon the unexpected involvement of the Dutch in this matter. What did it mean? And more important, did the fact that Crocker had apparently fled the residence mean that she had taken with her the jewels of her mistress? I hoped not, indeed I did, for I had thought better of her than that.

Entering the kitchen, I found Constable Bailey at one end of the long table, deep in conversation with Maude Bleeker, the cook. The porter hovered at some distance. Mr. Bailey looked up as I arrived and rightly perceived that I had come on an errand for Sir John. He held up his hand, thus silencing Bleeker who turned about to see the reason for the interruption.

“Yes, Jeremy, what is it?”

“I’ve been sent down to fetch Hulda,” said I to the cook. Then to Mr. Bailey: “She’s the one discovered the jewels were gone.”

“So I was just told,” said he. “Miss Maude, could you rouse her?”

“Oh, I could and I will,” said she, rising with a nod to me. “You ask me, and I’ll tell you it’s time somebody asked her some questions.”

Without being specific as to what questions might be asked of Hulda, the cook lumbered through the doorway and into the common room.

Glancing at Mossman in the far corner, I determined that he was at a sufficient distance that I might speak without being overheard. Nevertheless, I lowered my voice to little more than a whisper: “Has the questioning gone well, Mr. Bailey? “

He screwed his face into a rather pained grimace and responded in the same low tone: “So far, nobody saw anything, but they’ve got lots of ideas about who the thief might be.”

“Where’s Constable Patley?”

“Outside. He thought it best to leave the interrogation to me.”

Then, as if he had been summoned by my inquiry, Mr. Patley appeared in the open back door. He held a lighted lantern in his hand, and upon his face he wore a look of the utmost solemnity; his eyes, though cold, seemed burning with anger. I had never even imagined him in such a state. He said nothing, but took in the room with one great glance.