Bruce Alexander - The Color of Death

Perhaps he had been longer in the house than I supposed. Why, then it could be anywhere. Perhaps I was wrong about the mode of payment. It might indeed be a bag of sovereigns that I should seek. In that case, he could have dropped it in with the apples or the potatoes. In annoyance, I began roaming the kitchen, throwing open drawers, looking behind doors, looking into every dark corner, even in such places as a framed picture such as I envisioned could not possibly be hidden.

Then came to me an impulsive notion which struck me as fitting, but a bit unreasonable. Feeding the sink where dishes, pots, and pans were washed was a capacious and, no doubt, efficient lead cistern. What if payment had been left for Mr. Collier atop the cistern, just as the jewels had been left atop the cistern in the Trezavant water closet? What if, indeed? Well, were that the case, then the payment, if a picture, would have to be very much smaller than any I had in mind — but no matter, I thought it worth a try.

I found a wooden bucket under the sink and pushed it over to what seemed a good vantage point, then upended it, making it an excellent stool. I stepped upon it and looked at what was there. Initially, I was disappointed, for there was no such object as a framed picture upon the cistern, neither wrapped nor unwrapped.

But there was something there — rolled up — at the very farthest reach there at the top of the cistern. I stepped off and pushed the bucket still closer, then stretched to the utmost and managed to get a tentative grip upon it and pulled it off. I stepped down and examined what I had.

It was indeed a large piece of canvas, but unframed and rolled up and secured by three separate bands of string. It was a good two-and-a-half or perhaps three feet high. And there was no telling just how much had been rolled up within, or what it might contain — but I was eager to find out.

As in so many of these kitchens below the stairs, there was a great deal table set back a bit from the cooking space. It ran nearly the length of the room. It was here that I might unroll the canvas and see what it contained. I worked excitedly to remove those lengths of string which secured the roll. I had one off and was working on the second when I heard the voice of Sir John hectoring Mr. Collier as the four approached the open door.

“Sir John,” I called out, “I’ve something here will interest you.”

Just as he was asking what that something might be, Mr. Collier came crashing through the doorway, wide-eyed, angered, and expecting the worst.

“How dare you!” he shouted. “That is not your property. I advise you to take your hands from it this very moment.”

With that, he flew to me and attempted to grab the rolled canvas from me. Quite taking me by surprise as he did, he almost succeeded. Though a moment later, the constables were there pulling him away, there was no silencing him.

“You’ve no right,” said he most petulantly. “That painting belongs to me and to no other.”

“Just what is this painting?” asked Sir John. “Is it one of great beauty? Of great worth?”

“Sir,” said I, “it is one of those I described to you that hung in the gallery in the floor above.” (I had unrolled enough of it to recognize the peasants at play.) “I believe this is what served as payment between Zondervan and Mr. Collier.”

“A painting?” said the magistrate, surprised near to disbelief.

“Mr. Collier values it highly.”

“You understand only its worth in pounds and shillings,” said the butler contemptuously. “There are other, higher modes of valuation.”

“Why, I suppose there are,” said Sir John, “just as there are other modes of valuating the worth of a human life. To most of us, the life of another would be worth a great deal, and to Jenny Crocker, her own life was of inestimable worth. But you took it, as if it were a paltry thing, did you not? You stole her life from her, just as you stole the diamonds, pearls, and rubies from the Trezavants.”

“You accuse me of murder?”

“What else am I to think? She ran out after you, suspecting what you had done, and you simply killed her in order to cover your crime.”

“Where is your proof? “

“Oh, we shall find a blood-stained knife in the garden that someone will identify as your own. Perhaps there is blood upon some item of your clothing. It could be, too, that one of the servants other than Crocker saw you depart for the back garden, may even be aware that the girl followed you. We have barely begun our investigation. There is no telling what we shall turn up.”

Mr. Collier fearfully considered what Sir John had just said. He seemed about to speak when the magistrate himself resumed his reasoned accusation.

“You should be aware, sir — though you may not be — that we successfully laid a trap for the robber band at the home of the Lord Chief Justice. We pulled in four of them — perhaps five, if another of them survives his wounds. Now Lord Mansfield is unlikely to show them any mercy, since it was his home they attacked, but if one of these can give witness against the rest, he might be given transportation, rather than the rope. But you, sir, you are in a position worse than any of those, for you committed murder to cover your theft. I see little possibility of leniency for you.”

Now Mr. Collier seemed so wracked by emotion that he appeared near tears. Again, he seemed about to speak when Sir John spoke up.

“Unless …”

That single word gave him reason to hope. He clasped his hands tightly together and uttered a heartfelt response: “Yes?”

“Unless you were to admit your part in the theft, convince me that you did not murder Crocker, and bear witness against him who did. If you do, then I may be able to save your life.”

“I … I believe I can do all that, but …”

“But what, man?” Sir John’s patience was near exhausted.

“Can you save the painting for me, too?”

“I can try.”

“Well … alright.”

And so saying, he told the tale of what had happened the night before. Sir John, it seems, was quite right: Mr. Zondervan and John Abernathy, alias Johnny Skylark, had informed him of the hiding place and had agreed upon the mode of payment, even told him when best to attempt the theft — that last because Abernathy would be waiting in the back garden. All that Mr. Collier actually had to do was remove the jewels from the upstairs water closet and bring them outside to hand over to John Abernathy.

In the event, however, Maude Bleeker, the cook, caught a glimpse of Collier as he went out the door to the back garden, and she ran to tell Crocker, for she was aware, as were all the servants, that if the mistress’s jewels were stolen, Crocker would be blamed. That was why, when Crocker was found, she wore only her petticoat and shift. She had run out after Collier without so much as bothering to dress herself. There she saw Collier with the case containing the jewels. She did not, however, see John Abernathy come up behind her. He grabbed her, put a hand over her mouth, and then cut her throat.

Collier’s voice shook as he described the horror he felt when he saw the deed done. I believed him, and I believed he did feel horror. He was not a violent man. Nevertheless, when the body was found, and Maude Bleeker threatened him with what she had seen, he told her to beware, or she herself would likely get the same as Crocker; that was sufficient to silence her for the nonce.

“And did you mean by that you yourself would murder her if she were to inform of what she had seen?”

“No sir,” said he to Sir John, “I meant it as a warning that Abernathy might have the same done to her.”

“Did she realize this?”

He sighed deeply. “Probably not. She may have thought that I murdered Crocker.”