Bruce Alexander - The Color of Death

Beginning with Lady Fielding, he greeted us each one by name there in the entrance hall. He then looked about as if in hopes of finding someone to whom he might pass us on — but there was no one about.

Lady Fielding thrust herself forward and said in a voice at once insistent and confidential, “Mr. Burnham, you must tell us, how is he?”

“Uh, you mean Sir John, of course?”

“Indeed! Yes! Of course!”

“I believe he does as well as anyone might expect. Perhaps better. Though I must confess that I have not looked in on him this morning.”

Lady Fielding stepped back and regarded Mr. Burnham thoughtfully, perhaps wondering at his odd behavior. “But of course you would not have seen him this morning, for you, sir, are a tutor and therein your responsibilities lie. You are not here to nurse Sir John, but we are. We have come this long way from Bow Street to do just that. We shall gladly take responsibility for his care.”

“Yes, certainly. I quite understand.”

She looked at him rather sharply. “Do you?”

“Yes … quite …” But then a thought struck him: “Ah, but no doubt you ladies would like first to refresh yourselves. Right this way — in here, please!”

He threw open the door to the little room just off the entrance hall; once a sewing room, it now served as the classroom in which Mr. Burnham drilled Jimmie Bunkins and Annie in their lessons. Bunkins, in fact, was inside, looking up from the book he had in hand, apparently startled by the intrusion.

“There is a water closet just through that other door,” Mr. Burnham continued, “and a mirror of good size.”

“A water closet!” cried Clarissa. “Oh, do let me see. Do you pull the chain to make it work?”

“Come along,” said Annie. “I’ll show you how it’s done.” Though Annie could not have known the specific nature of Mr. Burnham’s difficulty, I surmised that she understood that something was amiss, and that he wished to create a delay. (That much was obvious even to me.) Annie grasped Clarissa by the arm and whisked her away through the door that had been pointed out to them.

Lady Fielding stood in the middle of the room, frowning. The curiosity with which she regarded Mr. Burnham now seemed to have given way to suspicion.

I myself started into the room, thinking to greet my friend Bunkins, but in mid-step I felt myself held back firmly. Looking round me, I saw that it was Mr. Burnham that had a firm grip on my shoulder. Then he bowed slightly to whisper, softly but earnestly, into my ear.

“Jeremy, go upstairs now — second door on the right. You will see what must be done.”

With that, he gave me a firm slap upon my back and sent me on my way. I jog-trotted to the stairway and took the steps two at a time. I felt thus obliged by the great urgency I sensed in what he had said.

Nevertheless, my mind raced faster than my feet. Clearly, Sir John had been moved. I had left him the night before lying upon the sofa in that same little room below. And there could be little doubt, surely, that he had been moved into the room that lay behind the second door on the right. But what should I see that miut be done? What could be wrong with Sir John? When I had left him there, he seemed able to resist any lingering effects of the gunshot wound. And certainly Mr. Donnelly, with all his doctor’s art, was capable of treating such a hurt. Had he not said that he had treated hundreds like it during his time as surgeon in the Royal Navy? (But perhaps I should have asked him how many survived his ministrations.)

With my mind thus preoccupied, I found I had walked past the second door and had reached the third. In fact, I was about to knock upon it when I realized my error. I hastened back and, dispensing with all formality, I did not trouble to knock but threw open the door and burst into the room.

It would be no exaggeration, reader, to say that I had never before, nor have I since, experienced such a moment of shocking surprise as I did then and there. For in the bed, which took up much of the space in this modest-sized bedroom, I found Sir John contentedly ensconced beneath a comforter; he was resting as well as anyone could hope. This was as I had expected it. But beside him, sleeping just as soundly, was a woman, young and comely. In fact I recognized her: Her name was Nancy Plummer, and she was a hostess at Mr. Bilbo’s gaming establishment. She made her home at the Bilbo residence, as did a number of his other employees. I knew her to be a pleasant and obliging person. I hoped dearly that she would be pleasant and obliging enough to understand why I must now rout her out of bed and move her someplace else — at least for the length of Lady Fielding’s visit.

I reached over and gave her shoulder a sound shake. (I noted that the shoulder was bare and thought that a bad sign.) Her response was simply to turn away from me and move even closer to Sir John. This, I thought, wouldn’t do at all.

“Nancy!” I said, giving her another shake, “Nancy, you must awake and be quickly out of bed.”

But I was too timid, not near loud enough. I would have to shout full in her ear if I were to have even a chance of waking her. I glanced uneasily at the door, fearing that were it open, I might be heard downstairs. But it was shut tight, and I was free to shout loud at her.

“Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!”

But that she absolutely refused to do. All that I could get from her were a few groans, a sniffle, and a cough. What was I to do? Again I shook her, and again it did naught. The situation seemed to be growing worse as each minute passed.

At that instant the door opened and Jimmie Bunkins rushed into the room. He looked as agitated as I felt, though not near as desperate.

“I can’t get her awake,” said I to him. “Nothing seems to work.”

“Never surrender to circumstance,” said Bunkins. “That’s what Mr. Burnham always says. I’m here to lend a hand, chum. Nancy always was a sound sleeper.”

“That’s missing it by half.”

“I’m also come to warn you that Mr. Burnham can’t hold them much longer. They’ll be up here any minute.”

“What’ll we do?”

Bunkins took a moment to think, then nodded with a sudden assurance that I found quite inspiring. “Let’s pull her out of bed,” he said. “If we can get this blowen on her two feet, she has to wake up, don’t she?”

“We can try it,” said I.

And try it we did. Bunkins threw back the comforter, revealing a good deal more of her than I was prepared for. I stood for a moment in an awkward state, paralyzed by embarrassment.

“What’s the matter with you?” Bunkins demanded as he took a firm grip on her feet. “Grab her, and let’s get on with it.”

“Grab her? Where?”

“Anywhere you want, but let’s get her out of bed and upright.”

Yet still I hesitated, taxing Bunkins’s patience still further.

“Listen,” said he, “don’t look if it bothers you all that much. But come now, together, you and me, Jeremy, let’s … li/tl”

I grasped her at her armpits and tugged as Bunkins hauled her feet out of bed and put them down on the floor; then he grabbed her arms and pulled her up and toward him just so. Tugging, pulling, and lifting, we did manage to put her in a vertical position, more or less on her own two feet. Bunkins and I looked hopefully, one at the other. He nodded; I moved back, and he stepped away. But oughtn’t her eyes to open? I looked closely at her. Perhaps her eyelids were beginning to flutter just a little. Of a sudden I was aware of the beating of my heart. But just when it appeared that we were succeeding, she collapsed without warning upon the bed, first in a sitting position, then tumbling down onto her side into the horizontal. Bear in mind, reader, that through all this she had not spoken a word, nor could I claim that she had truly opened her eyes. Just as amazing, however, was the fact that Sir John himself had slept through it all. I was certain of that, for all during my unsuccessful efforts to rouse Nancy he had snored as loudly and constantly as some amateur on the bass viol, sawing away on the same two notes. Zoom-zoom, zoom-zoom, zoom-zoom …