Bruce Alexander - The Color of Death

“It seems as if I’m the last to know,” said I.

“Oh, but I did not intend it so. You, of all people, have helped me more than I can reckon. You brought me here and convinced Lady Katherine I could cook, even when you did not know that yourself. And all the while I’ve been here, you’ve been like a brother to me. And … and … it’s because of you that I’ve learned to read and write.”

“I could not teach you.”

“No, but you saw that I went to the one who could.”

There we stopped — or paused for a space of time. We looked at each other sadly, but said nothing until Annie flew round the table and embraced me, putting her cheek next to mine.

“I shall miss you terribly,” said she to me.

“Well, yes, I shall miss you, too,” said I, “particularly at dinnertime.”

She laughed just as she was meant to.

“But listen, Annie,” I continued, ” your mother sounds to me like a very sensible woman. Why don’t you go down to visit her and ask her advice? Even responsible people sometimes ask advice. I’d be happy to give you the price of the coach ride. That way you could keep what Sir John gave you for later on.”

“Ah, that’s very kind of you, but did I never tell you? My mother died in the same year I came up to London. A tumor, it was, that killed her. I think she must have known she hadn’t long when I left.”

“Oh … no, I didn’t know that.”

She stepped away then with a sigh. “I must pack,” said she, and started to turn away; then, remembering, she came back to me.

“Jeremy, there is just one more matter.”

“And what is that?”

“Clarissa.”

“What about her?”

“You should try to be a better friend to her. She quite admires you.”

“So I’ve heard — though I daresay she has an odd way of showing it.”

“Oh, that’s just her way. Pay no attention.”

“What am I to pay attention to then?”

“To her, to her good sense. There’s some girls, you know, who want to be known for the brains in their head and not the pretty face outside it. She’s one of those.”

“I’ll remember that.”

She shook a finger at me. “See that you do,” said she, and laughing, she left me.

Later in the morning, when all had breakfasted and gone their separate ways, I returned with a farewell gift for Annie. It was a collection of verse by Elizabeth Rowe, one of those female poets whom she seemed most to admire; I had rescued it from the bin before a bookshop just east of Grub Street.

Coming into the kitchen, I looked about but saw her not, nor did I receive a response to the call that I gave. Yet just to make certain, I jog-trotted up the stairs and went to the room she shared with Clarissa. Her bed had been stripped and the blankets piled at the foot of it; the doors of the wardrobe stood open, and half of it was empty. I saw that Annie had truly departed.

The errand which took me in the vicinity of Grub Street took me to the Tower of London and the regimental headquarters of the King’s Carabineers. I had not visited the Tower so often that I had grown used to the military exercises inside its walls. And because the Carabineers were a mounted regiment, I was especially taken with the display of horsemanship out upon the parade ground. The four-legged members of the regiment were at least as well-drilled as the rest — walking in formation, cantering, wheeling left and right. I could have gawked and ogled at their maneuvers the entire morning, but I had places to go and things to do.

I went directly to regimental headquarters, as I had been instructed to do. There I asked for the colonel but was shunted off to one of his adjutants. He — a Lieutenant Tabor — reminded me a bit of Lieutenant Thomas Churchill of the Guards, with whom Sir John had previously had some dealings; both Tabor and Churchill had the same round, pink cheeks, the same arrogant manner. The adjutant pulled the letter from my hand in a needlessly rough manner when it was offered and ripped it open, destroying the seal altogether. His eyes sped over the page. I had no idea of the letter’s contents, for Mr. Marsden had taken it down from Sir John’s dictation. I found myself hoping that Lieutenant Tabor were a poor reader that I might catch him muttering the words aloud to himself. But, alas, no: He was as skilled and silent as any — and far better a reader than most.

When he raised his eyes from the letter and began speaking, it was as if he were dictating a reply himself and fully expected me to play the role of amanuensis.

“You may tell your magistrate fella that we are aware of the situation. The colonel gives his assurances that the small force your Sir John requests will be present when and where he wishes them. I shall command it myself.”

This was all very interesting to me. I wished greatly I might have the letter back that I might read it and discover what small force Sir John had requested and for what purpose.

“Lieutenant,” said I, “there is, I believe, room at the bottom of the letter for you to write your reply. Would you care to do that, sir?”

“By no means. There will eventually be a file begun on this matter — if the provost marshal has not begun one already. I shall need the original that copies may be made.” He then gave me a rather doubtful look. “But perhaps you will have some difficulty remembering the reply I have given you. I daresay you don’t seem to me to look particularly bright.”

His nose seemed to wrinkle a bit as he regarded me, as if he had just noticed what a stupid-looking fellow I was. That irked me somewhat. I had no wish to seem stupid to anyone.

“I believe I shall have no difficulty with it,” said I. And so saying, I repeated to him what he had said, word for word.

“Yes, well, that will do, I suppose.” He looked me up and down. “You may go now.”

That I did — and gladly, executing a volte-face surely as smart as any soldier in his regiment could do — at least to my mind it was so. I marched out of his small office and kept right on marching until I made my exit through the Thames Street gate.

Then, after making my detour toward Grub Street, where I found the book by Elizabeth Rowe, I went as swiftly as those winding streets permitted to Drury Lane and Mr. Donnelly’s surgery. Though not early, there were as yet no patients in the waiting room. He, himself, answered my knock upon the door and welcomed me inside.

“You’ll not have to wait,” said he. “I’ve just finished writing the report. The apothecary’s boy has gone off to fetch the mortuary wagon.”

“She will be given a church burial?”

“Sir John said he would get Trezavant to pay for a proper funeral, even if he had to squeeze the price of it from him.”

“Surely Trezavant can afford it,” said I.

“Living in such a house as that? Of course he can.” He hesitated, then asked: “Would you like to see her?”

I gave that only brief consideration. “No, I think not,” said I. “You see, sir, I knew her.”

“That does make a difference, doesn’t it? But… well, just give me a moment, I’ll bring you my report.”

He left me then and passed through the door into the next room. He could not have slept much the previous night; having performed his postmortem examination and written his report would have taken him hours. Yet he looked none the worse for it. I suspected that his years as a surgeon in the Royal Navy had prepared him for work in less-than-ideal situations. He always seemed to have a store of energy upon which to draw in emergencies. And what surprised me far more — he was of a remarkable and consistent good humor.

As he came forth from the next room, I caught a glimpse of a sheet-covered form lying upon the examination table. Poor Jenny Crocker, thought I, life did not offer her many possibilities, nor did she live long enough to pursue even one of them.