Now Mr. Collier seemed so wracked by emotion that he appeared near tears. Again, he seemed about to speak when Sir John spoke up.
“Unless …”
That single word gave him reason to hope. He clasped his hands tightly together and uttered a heartfelt response: “Yes?”
“Unless you were to admit your part in the theft, convince me that you did not murder Crocker, and bear witness against him who did. If you do, then I may be able to save your life.”
“I … I believe I can do all that, but …”
“But what, man?” Sir John’s patience was near exhausted.
“Can you save the painting for me, too?”
“I can try.”
“Well … alright.”
And so saying, he told the tale of what had happened the night before. Sir John, it seems, was quite right: Mr. Zondervan and John Abernathy, alias Johnny Skylark, had informed him of the hiding place and had agreed upon the mode of payment, even told him when best to attempt the theft — that last because Abernathy would be waiting in the back garden. All that Mr. Collier actually had to do was remove the jewels from the upstairs water closet and bring them outside to hand over to John Abernathy.
In the event, however, Maude Bleeker, the cook, caught a glimpse of Collier as he went out the door to the back garden, and she ran to tell Crocker, for she was aware, as were all the servants, that if the mistress’s jewels were stolen, Crocker would be blamed. That was why, when Crocker was found, she wore only her petticoat and shift. She had run out after Collier without so much as bothering to dress herself. There she saw Collier with the case containing the jewels. She did not, however, see John Abernathy come up behind her. He grabbed her, put a hand over her mouth, and then cut her throat.
Collier’s voice shook as he described the horror he felt when he saw the deed done. I believed him, and I believed he did feel horror. He was not a violent man. Nevertheless, when the body was found, and Maude Bleeker threatened him with what she had seen, he told her to beware, or she herself would likely get the same as Crocker; that was sufficient to silence her for the nonce.
“And did you mean by that you yourself would murder her if she were to inform of what she had seen?”
“No sir,” said he to Sir John, “I meant it as a warning that Abernathy might have the same done to her.”
“Did she realize this?”
He sighed deeply. “Probably not. She may have thought that I murdered Crocker.”
“But you are willing to testify that it was Abernathy murdered the girl?”
“I suppose so. — yes.” Then, realizing that might not suffice, he declared forthrightly, “Yes, I am willing to testify to that.”
“All right, Mr. Baker, you may take him away,” said Sir John. “Lock him in the strongroom with the others from Bloomsbury Square. Leave constables Sheedy and Kelly here to secure this place. Jeremy and I must get on across the river to Bermondsey.”
“But … what about the painting?” wailed Mr. Collier.
“Ah well,” said Sir John, ” you really ought not to bring it with you into that band of thieves. We shall keep it for you, sir, until your future be more certain.”
It did not take near so long to reach Bermondsey as I supposed it would. This was due partly to the lateness of the hour, and partly due to the speed with which we were conveyed there by Mr. Bilbo’s men. Though he did not resort to the whip, the driver did not spare the horses. He simply seemed to know how to get the most from them. And bouncing about as we were, there was little chance to talk, but what little Sir John said surprised me no end.
“It was you, Jeremy, who caused all that to happen.”
“Oh?” said I. “What do you mean, sir?”
“He would not have given forth as he did, if you had not discovered that painting. How did you know to look for it?”
“An informed guess, sir. He revered the paintings in that gallery of Zondervan’s, treated them almost as sacred objects.”
“Indeed he seemed to care more for it than he did for his own life. Who painted it, do you know? Who was the artist?” I’ve no idea, sir.
“Ah well, it would mean little to me, in any case.”
When we came to the wharf, I saw a considerable crowd of people — and horses — gathered round an empty berth. There were five Bow Street Runners, a whole squad of the King’s Carabineers — standing at attention by their horses — a few longshoremen, urchins, and assorted dockside layabouts who had come out of curiosity. I described the confused scene to Sir John as we stepped down from the coach. Mr. Bailey spied us and hurried over, giving a greeting that was in itself not the least encouraging.
“Ah sir,” said he, offering a casual salute, “we’ve a great mess on our hands, I fear. I only hope that Baker and Perkins did better than we’ve done here.”
“They did quite well, thank you,” Sir John replied. “But what is the trouble here?”
The trouble was this: Upon the arrival of the constables from Bow Street, the captain of the Dingendam quickly assessed the situation, sent off the last of the stevedores, and pulled in the landing plank. Mr. Bailey, as head of the detachment, was forced to negotiate for permission to come aboard. It became evident to him that negotiation was no more than a means of delay. The captain was waiting for something or someone, insisting that because the ship was Dutch, English peace officers had no right to come aboard and inspect the cargo.
“That, Mr. Bailey,” Sir John commented, “is pure humbug.”
“Just as I believed, sir, and I told him so in so many words — though my words was a bit rougher.”
Nevertheless, the captain of the Dingendam, Van Cleef by name, continued to argue long past the point of good sense — until he heard something that caused him considerable alarm. Mr. Bailey heard it, too, and at first believed the noise to come from a coach, then a whole procession of coaches, for the sound of a goodly number of horses, their hooves striking against the cobblestones. It was the squad of the mounted King’s Carabineers with Lieutenant Tabor riding at the head. Whereas Captain Van Cleef had managed to hold out against Mr. Bailey and his handful of constables, just the sight of the contingent of mounted troops was sufficient to send him to the main deck, where he began shouting orders to the crew (which were, of course, in Dutch and therefore quite incomprehensible to all but them). He attempted to parley with the lieutenant, but Tabor would have none of it. The young officer simply assembled his men along the wharf opposite the ship, whipped a document from his high boot, and read it forth from astride his horse. It was, in effect, a threat in support of the constables from Bow Street; if cooperation were not given by the captain and crew of the Dingendam, then the squad was given permission to blow the ship out of the water (though how this was to be accomplished with carabins was not said). The order was signed impressively by Colonel William Trotter, Comm., Sixth Dragoon Guards (King’s Carabineers) and countersigned by Major Francis Hughes, Provost Marshal, The Tower.
The Dutch captain’s response was to call out further orders (in Dutch) and to make ready for a swift departure. The hawsers were cut; the anchor weighed; they began to ease away from the wharf. Lieutenant Tabor ordered his men to dismount. Then did he instruct them to pull their carabins from their saddle scabbards, which they did. They aimed, and they fired at the downward flash of the lieutenant’s sword.