The Color of Death by Bruce Alexander

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,