“Why, the unmarried woman who finds herself with child is, in most cases, simply the victim of him who has put her in that state. There are exceptions, however. When a woman is bold enough, she may seek payments of money for her and for her unborn child from the father — or from the putative father. She threatens him with disclosure should he refuse to pay up. Men who are in a sensitive position — married, members of the clergy, others who do not wish a scandal of that sort for whatever reason — are particularly vulnerable.”
“But sir, that is blackmail, plain and simple.”
“Indeed it is, Jeremy. In many cases, however, some might say that it is justifiable blackmail, for after all, who will take care of the unwed mother and her babe if she does not take care of herself?”
“Even so/’ said I.
“Even so,” said Sir John, “it is a way fraught with peril. You’ll recall that I said that the woman who attempted such a maneuver would have to be bold. That is because there are three courses of action open to the male victim of blackmail.”
“Oh? Not merely two?”
“Pay up, you mean, or face disclosure?”
“That’s right, sir.”
“No, there is a third course. There is always danger that the intended victim may turn on the blackmailer and murder her, or have her murdered.”
“Do you believe that to be the case in this instance?”
“Not necessarily. I say merely that it is a possibility we must now consider — one among others. But let me put it to you, Jeremy: Do you think this girl, this Jenny Crocker, would be capable of blackmail?”
I gave that a bit of thought, remembering her rather odd relationship with Arthur Robb, the late butler of the Trezavant house. But after all, I told myself, to go from that relatively innocent practice to blackmail was indeed a very great jump. And so, having thought, I gave Sir John a most judicious answer. “Perhaps,” said I.
“Ah, thank you, Jeremy. I do like a firm opinion firmly stated.”
“Well, I … I …”
“Never mind. It was wrong of me to ask. I would not want you to cast a stone at one who could not defend herself.”
Not wishing to end our interview on that rather sour note, I ransacked my brain for some bit of information which might interest him, some triviality to do with the continuing investigation, but all that occurred to me was what I had heard the night before from Mr. Donnelly regarding Zondervan, the Dutch trader.
I put it to him rather casually, for that, no doubt, was all that it deserved. “Oh, by the bye, Sir John,” said I, rising to leave, “did Mr. Donnelly tell you of his dinner at Lord Mansfield’s residence and who it was he met there?”
“No, who was it, pray tell?” He seemed to have little interest in the matter. “Some duke or earl, I presume.”
“By no means. It was that man Zondervan, who lives in St. James Street.”
The change in Sir John was immediate and most impressive. He threw himself forward with such force that he seemed almost to be jumping across the desk at me.
“Tell me that again, Jeremy. Zondervan was at Lord Mansfield’s last night?”
“Well, yes sir, but…”
“Perhaps you’d better give me the entire story.”
Since I knew not what part of it he was interested in, I was obliged to do as he suggested and tell it all, as Mr. Donnelly had told me. And so that is what I did.
When I had done, Sir John sat thinking for a good long moment, saying nothing, merely fidgeting with the wedding ring on his finger. I thought, perhaps, that I had bored him so with my inexpert telling, that his mind had wandered off to more engaging matters. In that case, I decided it might be best to beat a hasty retreat.
“Will that be all, sir?” I asked.
“All for the present,” said he, “but I should like to meet your Mr. Zondervan. He might have some interesting things to tell us. Why don’t you call upon him and invite him here that I might speak with him.”
“What if he does not wish to come, or puts me off to another day? “
“Then you must do as you did with Mr. Burnham.”
“And what did I with him, sir?” “You persuaded him.”
Having no idea how I might go about that and feeling a certain trepidation, I brought myself to the Zondervan residence in St. James Street early in the afternoon; Sir John had requested that I bring him by just following that day’s session of his Magistrate’s Court. What was I to do? How was I to persuade him?
I thumped upon the door with the great hammer-shaped doorknocker hung in the very middle of it. The butler came — the same butler who had twice admitted me when I had come in search of Collier. He frowned at me, not inhospitably, but as one might frown in concentration. Then, of a sudden, did he smile in recognition.
“Now I remember you,” said he. “You’re the young fellow came investigating for the Bow Street Court, are you not?”
“So I am,” said I. “And I’ve need to talk with your master today.”
“My master? You mean, Mr. Zondervan? Why, he has just returned from Holland. He was not even present at the time of that robbery.”
“There has been another since then,” said I, “and in any case, I am not come to interrogate him, nor would I presume to.”
“Oh/’ said the butler. “What then?”
“I have an invitation to offer him.”
“Give it me, and I shall deliver it.”
(All butlers are the same.)
“I am to present it in person.”
“Yes … well … indeed.” At least I had succeeded in perplexing the fellow. “All right, come inside and stay here at the door. I shall go and discuss the matter with Mr. Zondervan.”
I did as he said and saw him disappear down the long central corridor. As I did, I became aware of a hum of activity throughout the house. Voices, footsteps, even a bit of hammering and sawing sounded from deep within the place. Might it have been upstairs or down? In truth, I could not tell.
I had not long to wait, for the butler quickly reappeared. I could not tell from his expression if I were to leave or be conducted into his master’s exalted presence, for he wore, as near as I could tell, no expression whatsoever. He stopped a modest distance from me.
“If you will follow me, please.”
That I did, and gladly. He moved along at a good pace, yet I had no real difficulty in keeping up. Remaining a few steps behind as I did, I was able to look right and left into the rooms as we passed them by. I know not quite how to express this, but an air of departure, of sudden change, seemed to have settled over the place. At first it seemed that there was naught which seemed truly different, except for cloths thrown over the damask-covered furniture in one room. But in another, there was something truly astonishing: that was the room wherein Mr. Zondervan’s collection of paintings had been hung. The door stood open (which, I had been given to understand, was quite rare), and the afternoon sun poured in through the windows, lighting walls that were altogether empty. The room, which but a week ago was crowded with canvases, was now quite bare of them.
Could it be? I wished to stop and go inside the room to give it a thorough examination — but of course, I could not. I glanced back over my shoulder and gave a swift count to the rooms we had passed — yes, as I thought, there were three that side of the hall, which made this the fourth, which fitted my memory exactly. Yet perhaps my memory played me false.
“Young man, this way please.” It was the butler, standing before the door opposite the empty picture gallery. I had wandered past him as I stared.
This was quite embarrassing. Nevertheless, I was determined to find out more.
“The paintings,” I whispered to the butler, as I pointed at the room across the hall, “what happened to them?”
“They’ve been moved,” said he, his face quite like that of a statue. “Spring cleaning, you know.” And then, with a slight bow — hardly more than a nod of his head — he indicated the open door, and I proceeded into the room.
Mr. Zondervan was not quite what I expected. Mr. Gabriel Donnelly had told me what a remarkably entertaining man he was, and I had heard his great booming laugh, and so I believe that I thought to find a proper Dutchman of the sort frequently caricatured; which is to say, I looked for one who was fat, blustering, and jolly. What I found instead was a man of near six feet in height, slender, and handsome both in his features and in his bearing. He looked, in short, as every Englishman hopes to look. He stood next the fireplace, his elbow upon the mantelpiece, examining a vase of delicate porcelain, which, to me at least, appeared to be of Chinese origin. It looked quite like that one which Thomas Roundtree had stolen from Lord Mansfield’s house and thereby brought such misery upon himself.