“Oh, there was more than that by the time they were all together. They came in the front and the back. For all I know, they come in the windows, too. And they were yellin’ back and forth, pickin’ up the paintings right off the wall, gathering in the vases and dishes, even furniture. They were a busy lot — whilst they were here.”
“And how long was that?”
“Oh, ten minutes, no more than fifteen.”
“And they were all black?”
“Well, that’s the way they looked, anyways.” That was said with a wink.
“Where were you while this was going on?”
“I was upstairs with the two of them. They pulled me out of the kitchen where I was with all the rest of the help.”
“And that,” said I, ‘was because Mr. Trezavant had told them you knew where the jewels were hid — was it not?”
“It was so,” she agreed. Then, oddly, she averted her face as she might if seeking to hide tears — though she had not till that moment seemed in the least tearful. “Now he says I told them where they were, and I had a duty not to — as if I’d risk my nose for him!”
“Oh,” said I, sufficiently moved just then to give her a pat upon the shoulder, “he was drunk and will no doubt feel differently in the morning.”
“Only if the missus comes back with the jewel case.”
I had taken a few notes through the interview. As I was about to tuck away my pencil, I realized I had not yet taken her name. I asked it.
“My name is Jenny,” said she, looking up suddenly, a winsome smile upon her face (causing me to wonder at her quick recovery). “Thought you’d never ask.”
But ask I had, and as was often said in those days, in for a penny, in for a pound. “And what is your family name, Jenny?”
“Crocker,” said she, right pertly.
“I may have need to question you further.”
“Well …” she sighed. “Sunday is my day free. P’rhaps if you dropped by early in the afternoon …”
“Or in the morning?”
“I’ve an engagement.”
“The early afternoon then.” I gave a little bow. “That will be all. You may leave with my thanks.”
And that she did, casting one last smile over her shoulder just at the doorway as I waited patiently for her to disappear. I thought it time to seek Mr. Bailey that I might learn if he had another whom I should interview. I heard a door close and assumed (quite rightly) that Mistress Crocker had vacated the kitchen. I stepped out of the little cupboard room, looked about and, seeing no one, went up the stairs to search for Mr. Bailey.
The prospect of seeing Mistress Crocker once again was not in itself at all unattractive, and I was sure that I would find enough questions to ask to justify a stroll with her in the park. Nevertheless, what interested me most was her morning engagement. Who might she be seeing then? I wondered about that as I ascended the back stairs. I could not say what it was had made me curious — a fleeting, odd, furtive expression, some subtle change in her demeanor. Yet curious I most certainly was.
Once at the top of the stairs, I rounded the corner, which put me at the foot of the long central hall. From there I could tell by the babble of voices and the small crowd that had gathered at the far end of the hall that some great event had taken place. I went swiftly to join the crowd that I might learn what had happened.
The first thing I noticed when I joined the outer circle of onlookers was that, so far as I could tell, all were members of the household staff. Then did I spy Mr. Donnelly in the midst of the crowd, kneeling over an inert figure — the butler, Arthur, of course. The two constables peered over his shoulder; each wore a look of concern upon his face. Then did Mr. Donnelly look up and his eyes went directly to me.
“Jeremy!” he called, silencing the buzz of the spectators. “Come forward to me here.”
I did as he directed, squeezing between Mr. Mossman — the porter — and a large woman who must have been the cook. I knelt across from Mr. Donnelly and looked down at the butler, not quite knowing what to expect.
“This man is alive,” said Mr. Donnelly to me.
He certainly did not appear to be. His eyes were still shut and the corners of his mouth were pulled back in the same grimace I had seen before. In fact, in every particular he appeared just as he had earlier.
“I know he does not seem so, but you must take my word for it. I’ve held a looking glass to his mouth, and each time I’ve done so, it’s been clouded.”
“Not a heart stoppage then?”
“No, no, apoplexy rather. I must get him to St. Bartholomew’s. Now, I have just learned that the Trezavant’s coach and four is at their country home in Sussex. Could you go quickly to the Bilbo residence and ask the loan of their coach and team, driver and all? Explain the situation and put it to them that it would be a great favor to Sir John.”
“They will not hesitate, I’m sure.”
“Then go swiftly,” said the surgeon.
“Like the wind,” said I, jumping to my feet. Then I pushed my way to the door, and a moment later I was in Little Jermyn Street, running for St. James.
Indeed they did not hesitate at the Bilbo house. Mr. Burnham answered my knock on the door again and, as he had before, looked as if he had just returned from a long outing. He brought me inside and to the coachmen who were witting about in the kitchen, drinking tea. I made my appeal to them, and the driver rose, declaring that they had over an hour before they were to collect Mr. Bilbo. “Why not do a good turn for some good soul?”
“The horses need a proper run, anyways,” said the footman.
And so, reader, the horses had their run. At a gallop, they delivered poor Arthur to the hospital, as Mr. Donnelly and I held on to him, steadying him as the coach rocked back and forth on the cobblestones.
Mr. Donnelly remained at St. Bartholomew’s in order to discuss what might be done for the patient in the way of treatment (apparently very little). But I was whisked off to Bow Street, riding atop the coach by invitation, holding on for dear life yet enjoying the journey far more than earlier.
Next morning, having eaten my own breakfast, I took the tray Annie had prepared for Sir John up to his bedroom. I thought to wake him with a cup of hot tea, but when I entered the room, I found him awake and sitting up in bed. How long had he been so?
“Ah,” said he as I crossed the threshold, “Jeremy, is it? Come in, come in. I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Oh? How long have you been awake?”
“I’ve no idea, really. But I understand from Kate that there was another robbery last night of the kind that took place at Lord Lilley’s, and that you answered her call and went out in my place.”
“That’s correct, sir.” Setting down the tray before him, I busied myself pouring the cup full of tea from the small clay pot that Annie had supplied. I put it in his hands and waited as he sipped from it. Then I found for him an empty spot on the tray that he might set the cup down.
“I wish I had been there,” said he, “for as you know, there is much to be learned at the scene of the crime when memories are fresh. Nevertheless, I trust you, and you have otherwise been proceeding with the investigation, have you not?”
“I have, sir. If you wish me to tell you how it progresses — ”
“No, no,” said he, waving me to silence, “report only when you are ready. I do, however, need a few details regarding last night’s robbery. First of all, who was it that was robbed?”
“The home of Mr. Thomas Trezavant.”
“The coroner? Oh, dear God. I’ll be hearing much about this, I’m sure. Was he present? Did he meet the robbers?”
“Yes sir, he met them and said they were cruel black buggers, which indicated to me that he had been tortured in some way. I saw no evidence of this, however, and I must say he was quite drunk when he said it.”
“He was, was he? To what purpose did they torture him — if indeed he was tortured?”
“Probably to force him to reveal where his wife’s jewels were hidden.”