The Color of Death by Bruce Alexander

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.”
    “Afterward? But… as I said, the blow to my head from the door left me a bit addled, I fear.”
    “I know, but I fear you must try.”
    He did try, no doubt to the best of his ability. First he told how he had been dragged through the house, then taken down the back stairs and dumped upon the kitchen floor. That, in any case, was where he came fully conscious. The staff — all except for Pinkham (who was later to join them) and the coachmen (who awaited Lord and Lady Lilley at the ambassador’s residence) — had been gathered together in the kitchen, where they were held prisoner by a threatening black man with a ring in his ear, a pistol at his side, and a cutlass in his hand. Mr. Collier then explained that from that point on, all that he could glean of the robbers’ activities within the house had come to him through his ears. He heard the footsteps of more men above them as they entered through the rear of the house. How many? He could not be sure; perhaps three in addition to those who had come through the front — perhaps more. In any case, the robbers were very well organized, for they did not stay long. How long? Only minutes —