Free The Color of Death by Bruce Alexander Page B

advice on where he might go to find a new place of employment. This I had learned from the butler of the house, who admitted me only after I convinced him that I did truly represent Sir John Fielding of the Bow Street Court, and that Sir John was greatly displeased that Lord Lilley had closed his door to the investigation.
    “He had specifically asked that Lord Lilley take no action until his investigation was complete,” I had said to the Zondervan butler. “He thought Mr. Collier and Mistress Pinkham quite without guilt in the matter. He felt that the facts would exonerate them from all blame.”
    That last bit, I concede, was a little far from the truth. Nevertheless, it helped me gain entry into the house, for I concluded with a request that if he were to know Mr. Collier’s whereabouts, would he then please convey my need to speak with him.
    The butler, a tall man, looked at me rather closely, as if assessing my worth (which in a sense was exactly what he was doing). Then did he say to me, “You may tell him that yourself, if you like. Right this way, young man.”
    He lectured me, as we walked to the back stairs, on how fortunate I was to have come when I did. Was that because Mr. Collier had only lately arrived and would not stay long? No, it seemed that I was lucky that I had come when Mr. Zondervan (“the master,” as he was called) had just left on a quick visit to the Continent. “If he were not,” said he, “I could not possibly allow you inside.”
    I divined from this that Mr. Collier was also fortunate in having come when he did. He did not, however, appear as one who judged himself so. On the contrary, at first glimpse he seemed, if anything, more agitated and troubled than he had when Sir John had interrogated him the night before. He sat at the far end of the long kitchen table surrounded by no less than four of his cronies from the Zondervan staff. With him I spied an older woman of a rather slovenly appearance (surely the cook) and a man in rough twill who toyed with a great, high horsewhip (undoubtedly the coach driver) and two male servants of undefined position. Mr. Collier held the attention of all as he railed against the perfidy — nay, the treachery — of employers. There was general agreement amongst his listeners at that. He inhaled deeply and made ready to fire another broadside, but just then I managed to catch his eye. He said nothing at all for a moment as he stared at me, frowning, unable quite to place me.
    “Here now,” said he, “I know you, don’t I?”
    “Yes sir, you do,” said I. “When Sir John Fielding asked questions of you last night I was there at his side.”
    “So you were, so you were.”
    “He has sent me to ask a few more questions of you.”
    Mr. Collier said nothing for a moment, evidently considering the matter I had put before him. Then, of a sudden, did he lash out at me: “Oh, he did, did he? Well, he did precious little to help my cause with Lord Lilley; why should I help him now?”
    His personal disaster had made him bold — far bolder than he had been before. That he now had the opportunity to perform before an audience must also have given him encouragement. His four listeners had become eager participants in the show. They murmured praise for his last outburst as I sought the proper words with which to soothe his anger. Something must be said — that much was certain.
    “You must know that he left a message for Lord Lilley with one of the constables. He asked that none of the household staff be discharged or penalized,” said I.
    “I know he jaid he would make such an appeal, but why did he not come this morning and present an argument on our behalf to the master?”
    “Because, my good sir, he was shot down by one of the robbers right here in St. James Street in a dastardly attack. He, who nearly lost his life, is far more the victim of those villains than you, sir, who lost only your employment!”
    Was this how I hoped to soothe the