The Color of Death by Bruce Alexander Page B

after the surgeon left, your husband got a terrible chill, he did. He was shivering, and his teeth were chattering away. Mr. Burnham, who is more learned than I am, knew not what was to be done, did you, Mr. Burnham?”
    “Oh, no sir, I did not,” said the tutor.
    “But I, being a practical man and having some experience in such matters, decided he should be put in beside Nancy Plummer, who had then been asleep for some time. Now, what you must know is that when Nancy sleeps, she sleeps as sound as no other in this world. So she could neither object, nor could she trouble Sir John. All she could do was lend him, unbeknownst, the heat of her body. It seems to have had a beneficial effect upon him, gunshot wound or not.”
    “Do you expect me to believe that?” She asked that in a manner less bold than the words may indicate. Her manner of speech was uncertain. She looked to him for reassurance. There could be no doubt that Mr. Bilbo had swayed her.
    “I expect only that you believe the simple truth, and that I have just told you,” said he. “I myself was cured of a mortal chill in just such a way by a princess of the Siboney tribe.”
    There was naught but silence between them for a considerable space of time. But then did Sir John speak up in a voice which resounded with a bit of his old strength and authority.
    “That is all very well, Mr. Bilbo, but what did you do with my breeches? I shall need them for the trip home.”
    It took near an hour of preparations before Sir John was able to make that journey back to Bow Street. Not only was it necessary to fetch him his breeches, but he was also in need of a new shirt, for Mr. Donnelly had ripped the old one quite to shreds in the process of removing the bullet from his shoulder and treating the wound. It was finally decided that the shirt offered by Mr. Bilbo would do, even though the sleeves were much too long. Sir John wore his blood-stained coat home as a matter of pride, though Lady Fielding claimed that she was greatly embarrassed by it.
    Once the matter of dress had been settled, Sir John held conferences in the music room — two of them. The first was with Lady Fielding. Though I sat near the door, waiting to have a word with Sir John, I heard nothing of what was said between them. Their conversation was conducted in low tones for their ears alone. Sitting there, I happened to remember the report on last night’s robbery written by Constable Pat-ley, and passed on to me by Mr. Marsden just before we had left for Mr. Bilbo’s residence. I pulled it from my coat pocket, smoothed it out upon my knee (as it was given to me wrinkled, and had become further wrinkled in my pocket), and, with some difficulty, read as follows:
    I wad woken palmal wen afelo cum doun from St. Jamed Street an tot me Lord Liii’d houd wad robd an it wad the blakd did it. I tol him to go to Bow Street an tet Sir Jon whildt I wen to whar he cum frum. He ded huf nam wad Wiyam Wotrd. I tuk charch at the Lordd houd. I found out ther wad a man kilt too but I dint git hid nam.
    Clearly, reader, Constable Patley’s strength was not orthography. Once I had puzzled it through, I remembered Mr. Marsden’s complaint to the effect that all he had gotten from Patley’s report was a single name. Indeed he may well have fared better than I, for I could not, with any exactitude, puzzle out the name contained in this report, so-called. What could it be? William Waters was the most obvious possibility, but it could just as well be William Walters, or even William Walker — allowing for Patley’s faulty memory, or his inability to express such a name in letters. Did it matter? Probably it did not. But I, word-proud as I was, felt offended by such ignorance. After all, Sir John had stipulated that all constables who comprise the group known as the Bow Street Runners must have letters and numbers; they must know writing as well as reading. Had he been tested? No doubt Chief Constable Bailey had taken