“You’ll have it, sir, in no time at all.”
As she left, Sir John turned to where he knew me to be and asked for my help in getting out of his clothes and under the comforter. “And by all means, hang my things out of sight. I’ll not have another lecture from Mr. Donnelly on the harm I do myself by daring to venture out of bed.”
“Yes sir,” said I.
“And should he ask you — or Annie — if I have been obedient to his rule, you must assure him that I have indeed been.”
“Surely you would not have us lie!” said I, hoping that the impudent smile on my face could not be detected in my voice.
“I would have you do as I tell you,” said he sternly. “All medicos are tyrants, and as tyrants they deserve to be lied to.”
“As you say, Sir John.”
“Now away with you, Jeremy. And tell Annie that if she does not hurry with that cup of tea, I shall likely be asleep by the time that it arrives.”
I told Annie no such thing, for just as I made to go, she was there at the door, a large, steaming cup on a saucer in her hand. A wink from me and a nod from her, and I was on my way.
I returned to the Zondervan residence in St. James Street in search of Mr. Collier, formerly of Lord Lilley’s household staff. I found him where I should least have expected to find him. The butler, who introduced himself to me as Mr. Hill, said that Mr. Collier had asked to see Mr. Zondervan’s collection of paintings, and he was in the room which was set aside as a kind of picture gallery.
“He fancies himself an expert,” said Mr. Hill in such a way as to make it plain he thought Mr. Collier nothing of the kind. “If you but follow, I shall take you to him.”
I was ushered down the long central hall to a room just opposite the kitchen stairs and the servants’ quarters. Then did he surprise me by producing a key and inserting it in a keyhole just below the door handle.
“You’ve locked him inside?” said I, mildly shocked at this disclosure.
“This door is always locked, except when the master is inside. That is as he would have it.”
Then, throwing it open, he revealed Mr. Collier at the other side of the room, his back turned toward us, studying a painting with an intensity it hardly seemed to deserve. It was no more than a picture of dancing peasants — colorful, yes, but scattered, difficult to fix with the eye, poorly composed (or so it seemed to me). Mr. Collier turned toward us and nodded. Mr. Hill and I took places on either side of him and gave it our attention, as well.
“It is very pretty, is it not?” said Mr. Hill in a rather airy manner.
“Beautiful,” said Mr. Collier. “It’s a Brueghel,” he added, as if that explained all.
“It must be very old,” said I.
“It is over a hundred and fifty years old,” said Mr. Collier, “but how could you tell?” He turned to me, waiting for my answer.
“People don’t dress like that anymore.”
He sighed, signaling his disappointment. “No, they don’t.”
I waited as he continued to stare at the picture. There were others hung about the room, a good many others which I liked better. I wondered why he didn’t look at them.
After clearing my throat twice to gain his attention, I suggested that he come with me to inspect the pawnshops in Field Lane, which were known to operate as fences.
“Fences?” said he. “I do not quite understand the term.”
“They are places which accept stolen goods from the thieves who took them and resell them to the public at less than their true worth.”
“I did not know such places existed. Why are they not shut down? Why are those who operate them not punished?”
“They have protection from the law,” I explained, “so long as they can show that pawn tickets were filled out for the stolen items and the operator of the fence will swear they were presented to him as the personal property of him who pawned them.”
“Hmmm,” said he. “The law is indeed strange.”
“At times it may seem so,” I agreed. “But if you accompany me and identify any items we see as Lord Lilley’s property, they can be seized as stolen goods and returned to him. It might indeed move him to invite you back into his service.”
He drew himself up to his full height, thrust out his chin, and said, “I would not accept such an invitation if it were offered.”
“Nevertheless, Mr. Collier, you are in a unique position to aid in the investigation. Since you made a survey of what had been stolen and drew up a list, then you probably know what is missing better even than Lord Lilley.”
“Ha! I’m sure I do. Most of what he had he ignored. It was only when he had paid an exorbitant amount that he took any notice of an object at all.”
“Well, then …” said I.
“Harry,” said Mr. Hill to Mr. Collier, “I believe what the lad is trying to tell you is that you mtut assist him, whether it pleases you or not.”
Mr. Collier turned sharply to me. “Is this true?”
“Well …”
“Oh, all right then, why not? It would do me good to get out for a bit, so long as you, Charles,” he spoke pointedly to Mr. Hill, “let me finish in here another time.”
“Tomorrow, I promise,” said Mr. Hill. He was most reassuring.
“Well, enough then, young man,” said Mr. Collier to me. “Let me get my hat, and well be on our way.”
And so, in a short time we were in a hackney and on our journey to Field Lane. If it was far enough to justify a coach ride, the distance was even greater from St. James Street if measured in guineas, crowns, and shillings. We went from high to low in no more than a few miles, from luxury to misery. When at last the ride was done, Mr. Collier stepped down from the coach, looked around him, and shuddered.
“Is this what awaits me?” he moaned. Not knowing the answer, nor even what, precisely, he had meant by that, I said nothing.
In most ways, perhaps, it looked like any other street in London’s poorer districts — that is to say, no worse than most. (It was said that there were far more squalorous locations across the river.) Nevertheless, an air of desperation seemed to brood over the length of it, foul as the smell that rose from the Fleet River — a veritable sewer — nearby. Those who walked it up and down, men and women both, went with stooped shoulders and bowed heads; even the children in the street played listlessly, never raising their voices nor laughing. The four pawnshops stood scattered along the narrow way, two on the east side and two on the west side. Why they should be gathered there so closely, I have no idea. Yet there they were, and we were bound to visit each of them, and search them all through. We stood on Holborn Hill; I indicated the direction, and we set off to perform the task for which we had come.
The contents of pawnshops do not charm me, and neither do the shops themselves, except in rare instances, interest me. I had, by the time of that visit, taken a sufficient number of robbery victims through Field Lane, so that I know, and was known by sight by, each of the four proprietors. There was no need for me to display the warrant I carried in my coat pocket. I went unchallenged. They said nothing but simply fell back and allowed me and my companion to prowl through the shop as long as we liked. Mr. Collier was, indeed, thorough. He went slowly through each pile, dug into every corner, and sorted through the contents of drawers and compartments. There was no need for me to call to his attention any area that he had neglected because he neglected none. I helped simply by knowing the plan of each of the shops and introducing him to storage areas he might not otherwise have known about.
Thus we went through all four of the shops. We then went back to Holborn Hill where I waved down a hackney coach. As we boarded, I said to Mr. Collier, “There is but one more shop that I should like you to go through. It is on our way back to St. James Street.”
“I have no objection,” said he, “though I hope it is not near so sad as that last street you took me to.”
“Bedford Street,” I called up to the driver.
“That’s said to be a dangerous place.”