But no. Mr. Patley pointed somewhat behind me and to my right. “We’re here,” said he. “This is the house.”
I turned and looked at it, frowning. Why, I knew the place, and I knew it well. I had delivered many a letter there, and even been inside a number of times. “This is the Trezavant house, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he said, “that’s the name.” It occurred to me that it might indeed have been better if Sir John had come, for Mr. Trezavant was the coroner for the city of Westminster. There were political considerations, matters of precedence, which I hardly felt competent to deal with. Nevertheless, I would deal with them as best I could.
“Come along then, Mr. Patley. Let us do what must be done.”
FOUR
The door was opened to us by a big man in his shirtsleeves — a porter, no doubt, or perhaps a footman (I’ve no skill in telling them apart). In any case, we were warned by him to step carefully as we made our way inside. Immediately the door shut behind us and I saw the cause for caution.
The body of him described by Mr. Patley as having died from apoplexy or a stoppage of the heart lay on the floor of the hall just beyond the door. I was somewhat taken aback by the sight.
“The master told us not to move him until the doctor had a look at him,” said the big fellow.
“Quite,” said I. “So I take it the doctor has not yet arrived?”
“No, young sir, he ain’t.”
I knelt beside the black-clothed body and called for light. Given a single candle in a holder, I examined the face of the dead man and found that he was, as I had feared, the Trezavant butler, a sweet-natured old man who had shown me only kindness on my frequent visits to the house.
“The butler,” said I, rather superfluously.
“So it is, and a good man he was, too,” said he who had opened the door. “His heart had been giving him trouble the last year or two. I wager that’s what done him in.”
If so, a stoppage of the heart must have been more painful than ever I had supposed, for the features of his face, frozen by death, bore an expression of great pain. His had not been a peaceful passage.
I rose and handed back the candle. I inquired as to the whereabouts of Mr. Trezavant. (I was sufficiently aware of the rules of etiquette governing the situation to know that it was the master of the house to whom I must speak first.) And I was directed to his study, where I had always found him in the past. I made ready to go there, but first I addressed Mr. Patley in what I hoped would seem the proper note of polite authority: “Constable, perhaps you will find Mr. Bailey now. Tell him I am here and ready to talk with any whom he deems worth questioning.”
“Certainly,” said he — a proper response.
Assuring the porter (or again, perhaps he was a footman) that I knew the way, I set off down the hall for the study. When I arrived, I paused a moment before the door, taking time to organize my thoughts and prepare myself for what lay ahead.
I was quite unprepared for what I found beyond the door. I knocked upon it and was invited to enter. Was there something strange about the voice? The manner of speech? Perhaps, but I threw open the door and marched inside, eager to find out what I could which might aid materially in the capture of this crew of ruthless robbers.
Mr. Trezavant was at his desk, as he always seemed to be, his great weight and huge girth quite obscuring the chair upon which he sat. His head hung low, and as I came close I saw that his jaw had gone slack; his mouth hung open.
He was drunk. I had seen drunken men — and women — in sufficient numbers on the streets of London to know the look well. When he raised his eyes and regarded me, they carried a familiar dazed expression. And then the proof: Nearly, though not quite, hidden behind a considerable pile of ledgers on his desk, I spied the brandy bottle from which he had imbibed.
He squinted at me, probably seeking to fix my image in focus. “Who’reyou?” he asked at last.
“Jeremy Proctor, I came when — ”
“Oh yes, I … Now I reco’nize you. You … you … Sir John …”
“Yes sir, I am Sir John’s assistant.”
“Whar’s he?”
“I fear he was unable to come. He was wounded two nights past in the discharge of his duties. I have come in his place.”
“You?” He laughed. “You’re … you’re … but a …”
“A lad? Indeed that is true, sir, but I have been well-prepared by Sir John, and with your permission, I shall question you and members of your household staff to gather information for our investigation.”
“All I can tell you …” And at this point came the longest pause of all; near a minute passed by, perhaps more, as I waited. But eventually, my patience was rewarded. “All I can say is … they were a crew of cruel black buggers.”
“Yes sir,” said I. “I’ll make a note of that.” I could see there would be little of use that I would get from him. “But tell me, sir, is Mrs. Trezavant here? Would she be available for questioning?”
“My wife,” said he, “is where she blongs.” He seemed to feel that he had explained all.
“And where is that, sir?”
“In … at home.”
“Here?”
That seemed to anger him somewhat. He glared at me. Was he annoyed at me for asking, or at his wife for some unexplained offense?
“No … in Sussex, and she took the coach … the coach and four this morning.”
“Well, thank you, sir,” said I, backing toward the door, “I’ll not bother you further.”
“No bother … a pleasure … Always were a most p’lite lad. My best to Sir John…. Talk to anyone you like.”
I had reached the door. I felt behind my back for the doorknob. “Thank you, sir,” said I.
“I b’lieve I’ll just take a nap,” said he.
And so saying, folded his arms upon the desk and laid his great head, rather like a baby’s, down upon them.
Not waiting another moment, I made a quiet exit from the room and into the hall. And there, waiting for me, I found Mr. Benjamin Bailey who, as chief constable, directed the quotidian operations of the Bow Street Runners. Perhaps, to put it more clearly, he was regimental sergeant major to Sir John’s colonel. That arrangement seemed to satisfy him.
He walked me a bit down the empty hall to a point removed from Mr. Trezavant’s study so that we might talk more freely.
“Did you get anything from the coroner?” he asked.
“Nothing at all. He was quite besotten.”
“Drunk?”
“Completely.” I looked at him then, no doubt as hopefully as I felt. “What about the servants? Are there some worth talking to?”
“Oh, I suppose so,” said he. “Yes, you should talk to a few of them, but you’re going to find that this robbery was just like the last, except for one or two details.”
“And what are they?”
“You’ll find out, Jeremy. It wouldn’t do for me to draw conclusions for you.”
I sighed. It seemed that even my old friend, Mr. Bailey, intended to put me to the test. Ah well, I could hardly have expected it to be otherwise.
“Lead the way,” said I to him. “Find me a room, and bring them to me one at a time.” I meant that as a challenge.
The first particular in which this robbery differed from the earlier was in the crucial matter of gaining entrance. Mr. Collier, Lord Lilley’s former butler, had been duped into opening the door by an individual, evidently a black man, who told a sad tale of a terrible coach accident — and, what is more, told the tale in the tone and style of a native Londoner; there were no African inflections, not even the flat and now quite familiar accent of the North American colonies.
But there at the Trezavant residence, the butler could not tell us what was said, how it was said, nor for what reason it was decided to unlock and open the door. No, the butler could not tell us, but, as it happened, there was a witness to the event — and he could.