Free The Color of Death by Bruce Alexander

turning to me: “Jeremy, go tell Mr. Fuller to come at once. Then you must run and fetch the doctor — the Irishman in Drury Lane.”
    I did as he said, sending Mr. Fuller back into the courtroom whence he had just come, and then ran at full speed for Mr. Donnelly. Luckily, I found him in his surgery and quite ready to match me stride for stride as we raced back to Bow Street.
    We found Sir John still in the courtroom, sitting in the chair from which he had presided over the day’s session. Mr. Marsden hovered nearby. Mr. Fuller, having aided to the extent to which he was capable, had excused himself and was no doubt preparing his single prisoner (the pickpocket) for his journey to jail.
    “Well,” said Mr. Donnelly, looking down upon Sir John most severely, “and what did I prescribe for you last night just before I left Mr. Bilbo’s residence?”
    “I’ve no idea,” said Sir John, “I was drunk at the time — as you well know.”
    “Jeremy,” said the surgeon, turning to me, “what was it that I prescribed?”
    “Bed rest,” said I in a manner most emphatic.
    “Exactly,” said he. “And here you are paying the price for your disobedience. But let me examine you, so that I may see if you have done irreparable damage to yourself.”
    And without further ado, he pushed aside Sir John’s coat, pulled up his shirt and listened to the patient’s heart with a kind of ear trumpet which he had pulled from his bag. Satisfied, he removed the dressing he had applied the night before and examined the wound itself. “You’re coming along,” said he.
    ” ‘Coming along’? What does that mean?”
    “It means, Sir John, that if you take care of yourself in the manner I have prescribed, then you may well make a swift recovery. If you do not, then you may find yourself chronically ill with the effects of the gunshot wound — not dying, you understand, but never fully recovering.”
    Sir John was silent for some time, considering the choice that he had been offered. “All right,” said he, “I’ll go upstairs to my bed and hope for the best.”
    “But,” said the surgeon, “not before I’ve put a new dressing on that wound.”
    Sir John offered no argument, and Mr. Donnelly accomplished his task with his usual efficiency. As for the ascent to the floor above, when the surgeon suggested that he be carried up the stairs, Sir John refused utterly to allow it, declaring that I, Jeremy, would precede him in the usual way; and that Messrs. Marsden and Donnelly should trail him closely that they might catch him in the event that he should fall backward.
    Thus we proceeded without mishap. Sir John’s hand was firm upon my shoulder, and his step was much more sure than I had anticipated. When I opened the door to the kitchen, I found Annie seated at the table, reading in the book given her that day by Mr. Burnham. Seeing that it was Sir John who accompanied me, she was out of her chair in a trice and at his side.
    “Sir,” said she in a manner most solicitous, “what may I do for you?”
    “Ah, it’s Annie, is it? They are about to put me to bed — and I must admit that I am quite tired. But I wonder, dear girl, could you provide something for me to eat? I’ve had naught since dinner. Some cold meat, bread, and tea would do me nicely.”
    “Make it bread and broth and nothing more,” said Mr. Donnelly. “Let us see how well he holds it down.”
    Annie looked uncertainly from one to the other, but in another moment we were gone — up that shorter flight of stairs and into the bedroom which Sir John shared with Lady Kate. Here he needed no help: He was most familiar with the room. He sat down upon the bed and removed first his right shoe and then his left.
    “Mr. Marsden, and you, Mr. Donnelly, I fear I must ask you both to leave now. Jeremy will ready me for bed. I thank you both for your concern and your assistance. I shall see you again soon, I’m sure.” This was said, reader, with great