The Color of Death by Bruce Alexander Read Free Book Online Page B

was replaced by a look of alarm. And it seemed to me that when he stepped aside to admit us, he did so only after a considerable hesitation; indeed one might say that he showed a certain reluctance in allowing us into the house at all. I could not but wonder why.
    Beginning with Lady Fielding, he greeted us each one by name there in the entrance hall. He then looked about as if in hopes of finding someone to whom he might pass us on — but there was no one about.
    Lady Fielding thrust herself forward and said in a voice at once insistent and confidential, “Mr. Burnham, you must tell us, how is he?”
    “Uh, you mean Sir John, of course?”
    “Indeed! Yes! Of course!”
    “I believe he does as well as anyone might expect. Perhaps better. Though I must confess that I have not looked in on him this morning.”
    Lady Fielding stepped back and regarded Mr. Burnham thoughtfully, perhaps wondering at his odd behavior. “But of course you would not have seen him this morning, for you, sir, are a tutor and therein your responsibilities lie. You are not here to nurse Sir John, but we are. We have come this long way from Bow Street to do just that. We shall gladly take responsibility for his care.”
    “Yes, certainly. I quite understand.”
    She looked at him rather sharply. “Do you?”
    “Yes … quite …” But then a thought struck him: “Ah, but no doubt you ladies would like first to refresh yourselves. Right this way — in here, please!”
    He threw open the door to the little room just off the entrance hall; once a sewing room, it now served as the classroom in which Mr. Burnham drilled Jimmie Bunkins and Annie in their lessons. Bunkins, in fact, was inside, looking up from the book he had in hand, apparently startled by the intrusion.
    “There is a water closet just through that other door,” Mr. Burnham continued, “and a mirror of good size.”
    “A water closet!” cried Clarissa. “Oh, do let me see. Do you pull the chain to make it work?”
    “Come along,” said Annie. “I’ll show you how it’s done.” Though Annie could not have known the specific nature of Mr. Burnham’s difficulty, I surmised that she understood that something was amiss, and that he wished to create a delay. (That much was obvious even to me.) Annie grasped Clarissa by the arm and whisked her away through the door that had been pointed out to them.
    Lady Fielding stood in the middle of the room, frowning. The curiosity with which she regarded Mr. Burnham now seemed to have given way to suspicion.
    I myself started into the room, thinking to greet my friend Bunkins, but in mid-step I felt myself held back firmly. Looking round me, I saw that it was Mr. Burnham that had a firm grip on my shoulder. Then he bowed slightly to whisper, softly but earnestly, into my ear.
    “Jeremy, go upstairs now — second door on the right. You will see what must be done.”
    With that, he gave me a firm slap upon my back and sent me on my way. I jog-trotted to the stairway and took the steps two at a time. I felt thus obliged by the great urgency I sensed in what he had said.
    Nevertheless, my mind raced faster than my feet. Clearly, Sir John had been moved. I had left him the night before lying upon the sofa in that same little room below. And there could be little doubt, surely, that he had been moved into the room that lay behind the second door on the right. But what should I see that miut be done? What could be wrong with Sir John? When I had left him there, he seemed able to resist any lingering effects of the gunshot wound. And certainly Mr. Donnelly, with all his doctor’s art, was capable of treating such a hurt. Had he not said that he had treated hundreds like it during his time as surgeon in the Royal Navy? (But perhaps I should have asked him how many survived his ministrations.)
    With my mind thus preoccupied, I found I had walked past the second door and had reached the third. In fact, I was about to knock upon it when I realized