“Ah,” said he, “well then you’re in luck, lad, for this very morning he went off to Sussex on the post coach.”
“But I saw him earlier boarding a hackney.”
“It was to take him to the post-coach house. Well I know it, for he asked me, would I go up there and have the coach come by here to pick him up. When I told him they wouldn’t do that, he was quite miffy, he was. That’s when he asked me to summon him a hackney coach that he might get to the coach house.”
“He was off to inform his wife of the robbery, I suppose.”
“Off to plead with her to come back, is more like it.” He grinned in open amusement at his master’s troubles. “I’m going now to haul back a grand vase of the kind his wife collects. It’s to take the place of the one the robbers stole.” He ended with a laugh.
“Well, since he is away, I will indeed visit Mistress Bleeker.”
“You do that,” said Mr. Mossman. “She’ll be glad to see you, and maybe what she’s got to tell will really help you some. She kept mum to me, wouldn’t say what it was.”
I thanked him and began moving a step or two down Little Jermyn Street, but he waved me back.
“One more thing,” said he. “What do you know of poor Arthur? Is he still with us?”
“Is he alive? Well, he was when last I saw him. All that can be done for him at St. Bart’s will be done.”
“Which ain’t much, I fear.”
“No, not much, according to Mr. Donnelly.”
“A great shame it is, for Arthur was a grand fellow. Never had a bad word for anybody. I don’t know what you 11 think of the new one.”
“New one? You mean he already has a replacement?”
“You might say so. A fellow come to the door this morning and said he’d heard of our misfortune, and could he see the master. He was already dressed up in butler’s livery and ready for work. I can’t say whether he has the position permanent or not.”
“No doubt that depends upon Arthur’s recovery. Hmmm,” said I, again imitating Sir John, “interesting, very interesting. Goodbye to you then, Mr. Mossman. I’m quite glad we met.”
We parted. I hurried on to the Trezavant residence, and as I went, I attempted to arrange my expectations in some pattern with what was already known. What would Maudie Bleeker have to say? Would it change much — or even possibly all? I promised myself that I would visit St. Bartholomew’s Hospital and see for myself how Arthur Robb was getting on; perhaps he might have regained the power of speech.
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?”