The Color of Death (20 page)

Burly Will fair flew up the steps and through the door and quite left me behind as he took the stairway to the next floor. Yet he waited for me there as I arrived somewhat out of breath. He had a little speech to make.

“Now, young sir,” said he in a low voice, “I would give you a bit of advice.”

“And what is that, sir?”

“I and another conveyed your Mr. Robb to this floor when he was brought in last night. Now, I’ve worked here more years than I would care to say, and I’ve seen many hundred come and go, so that I’ve a sense of who’s going out on their feet and who’s going out in a box. Mr. Robb is one who’ll soon go, and Won’t be on his own. If he’s alive now, he ain’t likely to make it till morning.”

“So I’ve heard,” said I. “The doctor who brought him in said that I should talk to him now, for I might not get another opportunity.”

And it was precisely for that reason that I wished to see the old man immediately. I wanted this fellow Will to take me to Arthur’s bed. I shuffled my feet, seeking to impart to him my eagerness to get on with it.

Yet he talked on: “He’s one of those who is sometimes awake and sometimes not. You must catch him awake if you want him to answer you proper. Now, the way to get him awake — ” He paused and peered at me closely. “Do you have a knife with you?”

“No, why?”

“Well, a knife is best, you see — just a quick jab with the point of it, not deep, don’t want to hurt him none, just enough to cause some pain. It’s pain that wakes ‘em up, quicker an’ surer than anything. But you ain’t got a knife, so that won’t do. Next best thing is a good, sharp pinch. On his arse is the best place — maybe the only place with one so skinny as he is. Now, mind what I say, lad, for this is the only way you’re likely to get anything from one so far gone.” He gave me a sharp nod. “Come along,” said he, and went off at the same fast pace as before without so much as a look back at me.

I ran to catch up as he passed first one door and then another. Finally, he turned in at the third, pausing an instant before he disappeared to beckon me inside. The ward was barely lit by candles at either end. Yet it was not difficult to make out the full figure of my guide standing at the foot of a bed about halfway down the aisle.

“Here’s your man,” said Will. “Is there somethin’ else you need?”

I looked about but failed to see the item I sought.

“Would there be a chair? Something I could sit on? I may be here quite some time.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” And off he marched, looking left and right into the spaces between beds to fulfill my request. Not far away he found a plain straight-backed chair. He brought it to me and accepted my thanks with a mock salute. Then he was gone.

My attention went at last to Arthur Robb. True, he breathed still, but lightly, shallowly, and somewhat irregularly, as one might if he were losing the knack. I bent over him, and in the dim light satisfied myself that he showed no signs of waking. His eyes were shut, but his face was far from relaxed; he wore the same pained grimace I remembered from the night before.

I touched him lightly on the shoulder nearest me — with no result; his eyelids gave not the slightest flutter and his breathing continued as before.

“Arthur,” said I in a quiet voice, “wake up. I have some questions for you.”

There was no response. I gave him a good sound shake — and there was still no response. No, not so much as a blink or a word spoken.

By this time, I was well-reminded of my fruitless efforts to waken Nancy Plummer. I could not waken him with a scream, as Lady Fielding had wakened Nancy, for I had not such a scream in me. And even if I found one deep down in my throat and brought it forth, I would likely waken the entire ward, perhaps the entire floor, along with Arthur. I sank down in the chair and considered the matter at some length.

Though it was not late, all those in their beds seemed to be asleep. The sound of steady breathing was all that I heard about me. Only Arthur, of them all, gave signs of great labor in his efforts. What could I do? It was evident that time was short. Mr. Donnelly’s grim prognosis had been seconded by Will. There was little could be hoped for him beyond this night.

I tried shaking him again — without result. I left off for a minute or two, then did I jump from the chair in which I sat, grabbed the all but lifeless form on the bed by both shoulders, and gave it a great prolonged rattling, up and down, down and up. Had I seen another behave so cruelly with the old man’s frail and helpless form, I would have leaped in to stop him. Yet little good it did me to treat him so. The only sign of change in him was a sustained “ahhhh” that came from deep in his throat. Yet it signified nothing, for once I left off shaking the poor old man, he lapsed into the same pattern of labored, shallow breathing. I sat back down in the chair, a feeling of defeat heavy upon me.

I sat thus for what seemed a good long time, and as I did, a voice within me began asking, repeating: “Would it be crueller to pinch him, as burly Will instructed, than to continue shaking Arthur as I had been doing?” When first I heard his advice, I thought it unspeakably brutal. I knew that I would not consider jabbing poor Arthur with a knife point nor pinching his arse — under any circumstances. Yet there I was, considering it. Would it be crueller? No. Was it then worth an attempt? Reluctantly, I decided that it was.

I slipped a hand under the thin blanket which covered his frail body, found his lean buttocks with my forefinger and thumb, and twisted as hard as ever I could — and then I twisted a bit harder.

“Ow! Ohh! Ohh!”

It was Arthur, indeed. I had hurt the poor fellow awake.

“What are you doing to me?” he wailed in a manner most indistinct. It was as if he had little control of his tongue. What he said was much more like, “Wh’doong muh?”

Assured at last that he could respond by forming words and making himself understood, I left off torturing the old man, came forward, and addressed him as quietly and gently as ever I could.

“Forgive me, Arthur, but I was desperate to wake you. I must ask you some questions.”

“Questions … why?” He seemed to be fading already. “Thirsty.”

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.”

“I shall try to keep that in mind, my Lady.”

Then did I glance in Clarissa’s direction, perhaps expecting, or at least hoping, for something like an apology from her, as well. Nothing was forthcoming, however.

“Then,” said I, “I shall join Sir John.”

And with a nod, I left them.

Of my report to Sir John, I have little to say. He listened carefully to what I had to tell him as he sat up in bed, hands folded across his middle. When I had done, he offered no interpretation of Arthur’s curious remarks, nor, having none, did I offer any ideas of my own. It was thus a rather brief interview. I stood up from the chair at his bedside and prepared to go.