“I thought I was still,” said she, with a curious smile.
“Well …yes, I suppose you are — and I am, too, of course — but I mean those who work in the great houses. Where do they go once they’ve been given the sack? Where should I look?”
At that, she threw back her head and gazed up at the ceiling, as if she hoped to find the answer to my question written there. She held that pose, thinking hard upon the matter for quite some time. Then did she take a sip of tea, still frowning, and give me a most direct sort of look. “You should go to the great houses up and down St. James Street and ask after them at the door. Those in service there keep well in contact. Remember that I worked in St. James Street myself. I remember that’s how it was there then. But you must convince them that you mean no harm to the butler — or to the maid. Only then will it be likely that they will pass you on to those you are looking for.”
I found the butler, Mr. Collier, three houses up from Lilley’s in the residence of a Mr. Zondervan, a rich Dutch merchant. He had not found a place on the household staff (nor was he likely to), but his friends in the Zondervan kitchen beneath the stairs had gathered round him to give him their support and their 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 feelings of this testy little man? Not likely, I fear. After all, I reminded myself, the purpose of this visit was to get this fellow to answer some questions and not to scold him. And yet, I again reminded myself, when he sent me out to perform this task, Sir John had instructed me not to be shy — to be rude if I must — but not to be shy.
Yet when Mr. Collier next spoke the nature of his response surprised me with its sudden change in tone and temper.
“Yes,” said he, “well … I … uh … did hear something about that. How is he? I hope … he — ”
“He will survive,” said I.
“I am greatly relieved to hear it.”
Looking round me, I saw that the audience, which had grown by one or two, was now similarly overcome with pious sympathy. Their faces had lengthened; their heads were bowed. But why not? These were servants, were they not? — as indeed so also was Mr. Collier. If I had spoken rudely because of my feelings for Sir John, then I had also spoken to him with the voice of authority. And he, as a servant, responded best to expressions of authority.
I took a step forward and leaned over him in a manner somewhat threatening. “I have questions for you,” said I to Mr. Collier. “Will you answer them?”
“Absolutely, young sir, to the best of my ability.”
“Very well. Had you anyone on the household staff by the name of William Waters?”
“Nooo, no indeed we had not.”
“William Walters? William Walker?”
“Nothing like that. No one by any such name was employed at Lord Lilley’s.”
Having had Burley’s information confirmed, I went on to the next question: “As butler of the Lilley residence, you presided over the staff. When you knew that the robbers had gone, who did you send to summon help? To bring a constable? To notify the magistrate?”
Mr. Collier looked at me, blinked a couple of times and said, “Why, I’m not sure.”
“Give it some thought.”
That he did quite visibly, screwing his face into a mask of concentration, shutting his eyes to exclude all distractions. He held this pose for a minute or more, quite impressing me with the intensity of his concentration. Only then did he relax sufficiently to say: “I did not send anyone.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Well … yes. I was dealt such a blow to my head when the robbers came through the door that I was incapable of collecting my thoughts when they had gone. It… it must have been someone else sent for help.”
“Or someone had taken it into his head to go.”
“Yes, I suppose that could be, too.”
“Mr. Collier,” said I, ” you gave Sir John quite a detailed report regarding what happened prior to the entry of the robbers — and I’m sure quite an accurate one, as well. I wonder if you would now put your mind to what happened afterward.”