The Color of Death by Bruce Alexander Page A

first in a sitting position, then tumbling down onto her side into the horizontal. Bear in mind, reader, that through all this she had not spoken a word, nor could I claim that she had truly opened her eyes. Just as amazing, however, was the fact that Sir John himself had slept through it all. I was certain of that, for all during my unsuccessful efforts to rouse Nancy he had snored as loudly and constantly as some amateur on the bass viol, sawing away on the same two notes. Zoom-zoom, zoom-zoom, zoom-zoom …
    “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