Bruce Alexander - The Color of Death

I looked about quickly and found a cup and a pot of water on the little table beside the bed. I filled the cup, propped him up and held him as he drank his fill. Indeed, it was not much that he took in — less than half the contents of the cup. But when he indicated he had had his fill, I lowered him to the bed and put the cup aside.

“Arthur,” said I, “do you remember just before the Africans came through the door, a woman called through the door, begging you to open it, for she was fleeing an attacker.” At that I paused, hoping for some sign from him that he had understood.

Yet all he managed to do was repeat the word “woman.”

“Did you recognize her voice?”

He answered in a surprisingly forthright manner, with what sounded quite like, “King’s Carabineers.”

“What?” said I, quite in confusion. “Would you repeat that?”

And that he did — but slowly and with great effort. I felt again that I was losing him.

“Would you like more water?” I asked. Then, not waiting for a reply in the affirmative or the negative, I grabbed the cup of water and propped him up that he might drink again. Yet he took in even less than before. He seemed well-satisfied, however, and a smile spread across his face, quite transforming his features. Then did he speak but one word, a name.

“Crocker,” said he, as he slipped from my grasp back to the bed.

I attempted to rouse him again. Indeed, I tried all short of pinching him. I would not, could not, do that again, for I felt that I had gotten from him all that he had to give. Perhaps a little later I would manage to bring him back with the offer of another drink of water. Yet for now I was content to consider what he had said and what, if anything, it might have meant.

Mulling it over again and again, I came to the conclusion that it may all have meant very little. “Crocker” was perhaps promising. It could have meant that when he opened the door he had caught a glimpse of Jenny Crocker, the upstairs maid, before the robbers rushed in. Having left the Trezavant residence from the kitchen by the back door on my last visit, I knew that it would have been quite possible for her to have run from the front door to the back and re-entered the house without being missed. But had she done so? The indistinct manner in which he had spoken — something like “Cwockuh” — caused some doubt that he had even said her name; I knew I could not swear to it. And I knew it would be difficult to reconcile the smile on Arthur’s face as he said her name with what followed his putative glimpse of her — the rude entry of that thieving crew, the knocking of the butler to the floor, and the apoplectic insult to his brain that followed. Such elements did not fit together.

Then there was the matter of the “Kings Carabineers” — that made no sense whatever. I tried to think what he might have seen when he opened the door to have inspired that quick and distinct response to my question. I strained so to find some answer to this that I exhausted my poor brain. I fell unintended into a sound sleep.

I was shaken awake by burly Will. The morning light poured in from windows I had not earlier even noticed. I stretched to drive off my morning stiffness. Then I turned in time to see the blanket pulled up over Arthur’s sagging, lifeless face. Though I was fairly certain of the matter, I nevertheless requested confirmation from Will: “Does that mean he’s …”

“Dead.” He finished the sentence for me. “Yes, it does, young sir. Dead is what he is, and dead is what I said he’d be by morning.”

There was a great flurry of activity among the patients in the ward. All, or nearly all, seemed to be dressing themselves, preparing for departure. Were all to be turned out? I asked Will where they would be going so early.

“To Sunday services,” said he. “And them that don’t go, I must look them over and say they’re sick enough to remain abed. And if I say they ain’t, then they get no dinner this evening.”

That seemed to me harsh treatment, and I was about to say so when I realized with great consternation the import of what I had just been told.

“Is it Sunday?” I asked, rather flustered.

“That’s when Sunday services is generally held, so it is.”

“Do you happen to know the time of day?”

“Well, I know it’s near eight, for soon as I get this lot off to the chapel, I’m off for the day. The Lord’s Day is my day off.”

I made to go, setting my hat to my head and pulling up my baggy hose. At last ready for the hike to Bow Street, I thanked burly Will and started for the door.

“Hi there, young sir,” he called after me, “did you get anythin’ from the old man here?”

“Something,” said I, “but I know not yet what.”

“Did you do like I said?”

“I’m sorry to say I did.”

“Aw, don’t take it on your conscience, young sir. The dead don’t care.

What did he mean by that? That Arthur was certain to die so it didn’t really matter? Or that he was already dead? (The latter was manifestly untrue.) In any case, I liked it not. Someone in the past had said something similar. Who was it?

I gave burly Will an indifferent wave and started my journey homeward.

My alarm in discovering the day of the week had to do with my Sunday appointment with Mistress Crocker. It had originally been set with the intention of asking her further questions. I admit, however, that at the time the appointment was made, I had little notion of what questions I might ask her. Now, however, there was much that I wished to know, yet still I wondered what questions I might ask. How was I to explore the hints I had taken from Arthur’s pronouncement of her name?

My thoughts were on this problem when I entered Number 4 Bow Street and marched up the stairs, went into the kitchen, and found all but Sir John there at table eating breakfast. In all truth, I was quite unprepared for the abusive reception I received from Lady Fielding. She was quite angry at me, and I could not suppose why; she was intemperate, vituperative. Was it all because I had failed to rise and start the fire for Annie?

No, as it turned out, it was because I had remained away from home all through the night. It was, so far as I could remember, the first such occasion, and it seemed to me that I had good and just cause to have been gone so long — that is, if the cause had been made clear to Lady Fielding.

I turned to Clarissa. “Did you not tell her where I was?”

“You told me to tell Sir John — and I did.”

“Where were you?” Lady Fielding demanded. “At some drunken party with your friend Bunkins, no doubt.”

“No, I was at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, attempting to interrogate a dying man.”

“Dying man indeed! How could you be sure he was dying?”

“Because he died.”

Lady Fielding’s attack faltered. Her anger suddenly exhausted, all she could apparently think of in rejoinder was, “Oh, how sad.”

“Well, did you get any thing from him?”

There was no mistaking that voice. Indeed, it was Sir John’s fierce courtroom voice, the one with which he silenced unruly crowds and called them to order. He stood in his nightshirt at the top of the stairs, his hands upon his hips in a most pugnacious attitude.

“I got something,” said I, calling back to him, “but not much.”

“Well, come up here and give me your report.”

With that, he disappeared into his bedroom.

I bowed to those at the table (no doubt overplaying it a bit). “Now, if you ladies will excuse me …” said I.

“Now, Jeremy,” said Lady Fielding, “there is no need to carry on so. If I was sharp with you, it was because I was most terribly worried about you. After all, though you may not agree, you are but a lad still.”