The Color of Death by Bruce Alexander Read Free Book Online

understand him.
    “You will not. You’re too drunk to go home.” Indeed Mr. Bilbo had made a good point. Even if Sir John had not been shot and lost a considerable amount of blood, I doubted that his legs would carry him to the coach, be it a hackney or Mr. Bilbo’s own.
    Black Jack Bilbo they called him, partly in respect of the dark beard he wore, though perhaps also for the dark moods which came upon him all of a sudden. Now, with his thick legs planted wide and his fists upon his hips, he appeared as a bull might, fuming and snorting, and about to charge. Just to see him in that threatening posture would have frightened most men.
    Even had he been able to see him so, Sir John, of course, would have remained unmoved; his friend did not frighten him, nor could he. Nevertheless, as a magistrate and as a man, he was ever one to admit the truth when he heard it, and after a moment’s consideration of the matter, he said in a manner of surprise, “Am I drunk? Jeremy, are you here? Would you say that I am drunk?”
    “I fear so,” said I.
    “You,” said Mr. Bilbo, “are disgustingly drunk. Would you wish to go home in such a state?”
    He thought upon that for a good long while. For a moment, I thought he might have drifted off to sleep. But no. “P’raps not. S’pose I’ll stay. But you Jeremy, you go home and tell Kate where I be when she wakes. S’clear?”
    “Most clear, Sir John.”
    “S’good. Now I think I’ll sleep.” Which he did — off in an instant.
    Black Jack Bilbo assured Mr. Donnelly that Sir John would be well cared for. He then offered us a return to our separate abodes in his coach. We gladly accepted and rode in style to the humbler streets surrounding Covent Garden. After I had returned the brace of pistols to Mr. Baker and told him of the evening’s events, I struggled up the stairs to the kitchen — but I got no farther than that. Having settled down to the table with a glass of milk and a chunk of bread, I thought to satisfy the raging hunger that had attacked me of a sudden. Next morning Annie found me asleep at the table, the bread half eaten and the milk half drunk.
    First Annie, and then Clarissa, tried to rouse me — yet without success. Only Lady Fielding, when she woke to find herself alone in bed and saw I had returned without Sir John, managed to separate me from the arms of Morpheus, though it was not easy.
    She shouted at me: “Jeremy! Jeremy! You must tell me what has happened!”
    She pummeled me with her fists. “Get up! Wake up, you wicked boy! What have you done with my Jack?”
    That, I think, was what brought me to my senses. It was not the screams in my ear, nor was it even the blows she rained upon my head and shoulders; but to hear myself so unjustly accused by one so close to me — that demanded immediate redress. What had I done with her Jack? What indeed!
    Jumping to my feet, I defended myself vigorously. “Lady Fielding,” said I, “if he is your Jack, he is also mine. I have done naught with him. What was done last night was done to him by an armed assailant. In short, Sir John was shot at close range and wounded.”
    “Shot!” exclaimed Lady Fielding. “Wounded?”
    Annie and Clarissa, who stood behind her, echoed her concern.
    I then told them in detail all that had happened, nor did I, in the telling, scant my efforts to defend him and see him safe to Black Jack Bilbo’s. I did also quote Mr. Donnelly on the extent of Sir John’s wounding, “serious enough, though by no means mortal.”
    “Oh, thank God,” said Lady Fielding.
    “He will require care,” said I. “His dressing must be changed each day.”
    “Oh, we shall see to it,” said she. Then, looking behind her for confirmation, she added, “Won’t we, ladies?”
    “Of course,” said Annie.
    “You may be sure of it,” said Clarissa.
    And so it was soon settled: All three would travel with me to Mr. Bilbo’s residence after breakfast — Lady Fielding and Clarissa to check