The Color of Death by Bruce Alexander Page A

as many as fifteen, though perhaps ten would be more accurate.
    “And in that time,” I put it to him, “when was it Pinkham joined the rest in the kitchen?”
    “Only toward the end,” said Mr. Collier. “That would have been in the last few minutes.”
    “How many minutes?”
    He seemed to take offense at my persistent questioning. “I have a timepiece, but I did not consult it. I can be no more accurate than I have been.”
    “We shall let it stand then at a,few minutes.”
    Something had occurred to him. That was evident from the vague expression that of a sudden appeared in his eyes.
    “What is it?” I asked. “What are you now thinking?”
    “I am now thinking that perhaps I can say with some certainty that it was just at the very end that she was brought down to the kitchen, for he who brought her had a conversation in whispers with him who had been standing guard over us.”
    “Have you no idea what was discussed?” I pressed him thusly.
    “Oh yes, indeed I have, for it was then that they selected Walter Travis out and took him away.”
    “Walter Travis?” I knew I should know the name, but…
    “The man they murdered.”
    “Ah yes,” said I. (Glad I was that Sir John had not been present to hear me make such an error.) “Was he simply grabbed out of the crowd and taken away? Was nothing said?”
    “Yes, there was a good deal said. A great threat was made by the one who brought Pinkham down. He said that they were leaving and none should follow. And if we was to do that, he would kill this fellow who was now their hostage, as well as any who followed. Now I can’t swear to it, because all these blackies look alike to me, but from the sound of his voice I’d say he was the same one tricked me into opening the front door for him and his fellows.”
    “Are you saying then, Mr. Collier, that Walter Travis was slain because some of those in the kitchen trailed the robbers out the back?”
    “No, no such thing,” said he with great certainty, “because just as soon as they were upstairs and out the back, we heard the shot, and we knew somehow that poor Travis had been killed. For some time afterward, we waited there in the kitchen. Burley, the other porter, was the only one of us who showed any eagerness to get upstairs. He got on well with Travis. You might even say as how they were friends. I cautioned Burley, held him back till there was no point holding him back further. And then he was first one up the stairs. He found the body where we expected it would be — right there in the back garden.”
    “And you saw it there yourself ? ” I asked.
    “Well, yes, eventually. First thing I did was go through the house room by room to see all that was missing. I got to credit those black boys. They stole a lot in a very short time.”
    “How much did they steal? What sort of cash value could you put upon it?”
    “That would be difficult to say, but with the paintings, the silver plates, the Chinese vases, and all, I’d guess it at thousands of pounds — maybe close to ten. God knows what the jewels were worth — perhaps an equal amount, but likely more. I made up a list for my master — or former master.
    Mr. Collier s listeners were brought somewhat aback by these estimates of his. There was a groan of appreciation, a whistle, and eyebrows shot up right and left.
    He then added: “I suppose it was because I was so deeply involved in assessing the extent of Lord Lilley s loss that I failed to send out for a constable. Just all of a sudden, not long after the robbers left, there was a constable at the door. I suppose that you know the rest.”
    I supposed that I did, for I had not then learned a tenet held by all interrogators: No matter how many times a turnip has been squeezed dry, you can always get more water from it. And so, upon ascertaining that I might reach him again through the staff of the Zondervan residence (“I’ll make sure they always know where I’m at”), I took my