Bruce Alexander - The Color of Death

“I got one last idea,” said Bunkins. “If this don’t work, we’ll — ”

As with so many other things in life, that too was lost, for as Jimmie Bunkins was offering to confide his “one last idea,” the door behind him which led to the hall opened very quietly and Lady Fielding came in on tiptoe. Hers was, after all, a sickroom visit. Would Sir John be awake? Would he be in pain?

As she soon learned, he was neither. He slept most contentedly with a naked woman beside him. Her eyes accommodated this; it took her mind a moment longer to take it all in, and that was when she screamed. It was, reader, a fine, full-throated scream, one of the sort which, as they say, “could awaken the dead.” While there is no proof that any such miracle was accomplished, it seems likely that it woke all who slept in the Bilbo house.

Sir John flung off his bedclothes and bounded out of bed, revealing himself in his white linen underbreeches. Unable to see either the reason for the scream, or its origin, he shouted out a warning against the Spanish and flailed the air with an imaginary sword. It occurred to me later that in his dream he had returned to the siege of Cartagena.

Nancy, for her part, reacted contrariwise. Finding herself bare, she covered her body with the comforter, jerking it up to her chin. She looked angrily at Bunkins and me, no doubt suspicioning the worst. Yet she saved her greatest scorn for Lady Fielding, whom she rightly fixed as the source of the loud noise that had roused her.

“Whore you and what’re you doing in my bedroom?” she demanded.

“Who’re you and what are you doing sleeping naked with my husband?” countered Lady Fielding.

“How I sleeps is none of your affair. And what do you mean, I slept with your husband? I am very particular who I sleeps with, and I’m sure I wouldn’t sleep with nobody married to you.”

“Well then, look upon him and tell me if he comes up to your high standard.”

Wherewith Lady Fielding pointed rather dramatically at Sir John. (He had by then emerged from his dream state and at that moment appeared somewhat dazed as he attempted to orient himself.)

“Kate,” said he in a small voice, “is that you I hear? I … I’ve a terrible headache.”

“Quiet, please, Jack,” said she. “We’ll discuss this later.”

Nancy laughed in spite of herself. “Why, it’s the Beak, so it is! Though he does look right fetchin’ in his kickseys, I’d never be so bold as to try to lead him astray. Wouldn’t even try.”

“Then how did he get into your bed?”

“How should I know?”

The two simply glared one at the other as the small crowd that had gathered just outside the door grew larger. In the beginning, it was no more than three: Mr. Burnham, Annie, and Clarissa. Now, however, there were four or five more. Then did another appear, one dressed in a richly embroidered dressing gown, though otherwise rather disheveled and rumpled; his beard was matted, and hair (what there was of it) stood in spikes. It was the cove of the ken, Black Jack Bilbo. He seemed to have grasped the situation immediately as he came into the room.

“Ah, Lady Fielding,” said he, playing the peacemaker, “let me assure you that Nancy ain’t to blame” — then did he cast a quick disapproving glance at his employee — “except perhaps for her sauciness and disrespect.”

“Then who is, Mr. Bilbo?”

“I fear that I am, m’lady,” said he. “Y’see, just after the surgeon left, your husband got a terrible chill, he did. He was shivering, and his teeth were chattering away. Mr. Burnham, who is more learned than I am, knew not what was to be done, did you, Mr. Burnham?”

“Oh, no sir, I did not,” said the tutor.

“But I, being a practical man and having some experience in such matters, decided he should be put in beside Nancy Plummer, who had then been asleep for some time. Now, what you must know is that when Nancy sleeps, she sleeps as sound as no other in this world. So she could neither object, nor could she trouble Sir John. All she could do was lend him, unbeknownst, the heat of her body. It seems to have had a beneficial effect upon him, gunshot wound or not.”

“Do you expect me to believe that?” She asked that in a manner less bold than the words may indicate. Her manner of speech was uncertain. She looked to him for reassurance. There could be no doubt that Mr. Bilbo had swayed her.

“I expect only that you believe the simple truth, and that I have just told you,” said he. “I myself was cured of a mortal chill in just such a way by a princess of the Siboney tribe.”

There was naught but silence between them for a considerable space of time. But then did Sir John speak up in a voice which resounded with a bit of his old strength and authority.

“That is all very well, Mr. Bilbo, but what did you do with my breeches? I shall need them for the trip home.”

It took near an hour of preparations before Sir John was able to make that journey back to Bow Street. Not only was it necessary to fetch him his breeches, but he was also in need of a new shirt, for Mr. Donnelly had ripped the old one quite to shreds in the process of removing the bullet from his shoulder and treating the wound. It was finally decided that the shirt offered by Mr. Bilbo would do, even though the sleeves were much too long. Sir John wore his blood-stained coat home as a matter of pride, though Lady Fielding claimed that she was greatly embarrassed by it.

Once the matter of dress had been settled, Sir John held conferences in the music room — two of them. The first was with Lady Fielding. Though I sat near the door, waiting to have a word with Sir John, I heard nothing of what was said between them. Their conversation was conducted in low tones for their ears alone. Sitting there, I happened to remember the report on last night’s robbery written by Constable Pat-ley, and passed on to me by Mr. Marsden just before we had left for Mr. Bilbo’s residence. I pulled it from my coat pocket, smoothed it out upon my knee (as it was given to me wrinkled, and had become further wrinkled in my pocket), and, with some difficulty, read as follows:

I wad woken palmal wen afelo cum doun from St. Jamed Street an tot me Lord Liii’d houd wad robd an it wad the blakd did it. I tol him to go to Bow Street an tet Sir Jon whildt I wen to whar he cum frum. He ded huf nam wad Wiyam Wotrd. I tuk charch at the Lordd houd. I found out ther wad a man kilt too but I dint git hid nam.

Clearly, reader, Constable Patley’s strength was not orthography. Once I had puzzled it through, I remembered Mr. Marsden’s complaint to the effect that all he had gotten from Patley’s report was a single name. Indeed he may well have fared better than I, for I could not, with any exactitude, puzzle out the name contained in this report, so-called. What could it be? William Waters was the most obvious possibility, but it could just as well be William Walters, or even William Walker — allowing for Patley’s faulty memory, or his inability to express such a name in letters. Did it matter? Probably it did not. But I, word-proud as I was, felt offended by such ignorance. After all, Sir John had stipulated that all constables who comprise the group known as the Bow Street Runners must have letters and numbers; they must know writing as well as reading. Had he been tested? No doubt Chief Constable Bailey had taken Patley’s word that he was literate — and in a way he was. I had, of course, gotten the sense of his message. I admitted that he had learned at least so far. The question was, whether or no he could be taught more. Would Mr. Burnham take him on as a scholar? Would Patley agree to it?

Out came Sir John and Lady Fielding from the music room. The skin round her eyes was flushed pink; her eyes glistened. She had been weeping. Beneath the black silk band he wore, I knew that Sir John’s eyes were quite destroyed; he could not weep, nor would he. His jaw was set, however, and his mouth turned down in such a way that his face had a stern appearance.