Page 59 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

Constable Jenkins shook his head in disbelief. ‘Your husband stripped off them clothes and shoes —’ he nodded towards the items, ‘and without a thought for his safety, dived right into the blood — ’scuse me, ma’am – dived right into the river and swam after him. Caught him, then towed him to shore. That takes some strength, that does.’

‘Should have heard the cheers and the like,’ continued the sergeant. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Emma and Mrs Daw gazing at Bram adoringly. Mrs Daw was wiping tears away.

‘Mind you,’ he added. ‘We thought the old geeza done for until your husband said he wasn’t and he was taking him to a doctor.’

‘His brother.’ I gestured to George, needing to say something, do something. I was thrown off guard – not by Bram’s heroism, that didn’t surprise me at all – but by the risk he took. All for a stranger.

I was willing the old man to breathe, for George’s efforts to be rewarded. As we watched, men I’d never seen before entered the room. Some stood back, others, with a boldness that stunned me, walked right up to the table. A few began asking questions, notepads and pens in hand.

The press.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the absurdity of the situation. My house, my beautiful home, filled with outsiders who, without a by-your-leave, burst in – the half-drowned, the curious, the awe-struck, the gossip-mongers.

I approached the newcomers, speaking to the oldest of them, a bespectacled man in a long coat and a worn waistcoat too small for him. ‘Who admitted you?’

‘Door was open, ma’am,’ he answered, without looking up from the page he was jotting on.

‘Can you tell me whose house this is, ma’am?’ asked another, tapping my arm to get my attention.

‘Who’s the gent over there in the wet shirt?’ demanded a corpulent, untidy fellow.

I didn’t answer. Bram ignored them all.

‘Emma,’ I said firmly. ‘Pass me the master’s clothes. Thank you. Now, would you be so kind as to escort all these gentlemen from the house and make sure no-one else comes in. Perhaps you’d be so good as to help her, Mrs Daw? You too, Constable Jenkins?’

‘Right away, ma’am,’ said Mrs Daw. Before he could protest, she took one journalist by the elbow, the bespectacled one by his, and with the peelers’ assistance, steered them out. Emma took up the rear, flapping her apron when they tried to object.

One moment George was puffing, the peelers (who’d come back in) were whispering and writing in their notebooks, Bram was counting, in the next, George stopped. He stood straight, looked at each of us in turn, and shook his head sorrowfully.

Mrs Daw and Emma gasped. The policemen slid their helmets off again.

Voices from outside competed with the screech of carriage wheels, the whistles and shouts of vendors, the barking of dogs. The clock on the mantelpiece marked time.

I’d never seen someone die, though I’d attended plenty of funerals. It was disconcerting to think that the man who’d been struggling for life one moment had expired not simply in my house, but right before my eyes. Almost immediately, his pallor changed, a yellowish-grey suffused his face. Colour fled his lips, which opened revealing long grey teeth.

What had driven the poor man to such despair? What restless darkness lurked within him? Did snaggle-toothed demons gnaw at his peace, convincing him to take his own life? Or was it an accident? What if he blamed Bram for not acting sooner and sought vengeance from beyond the grave?

I shuddered, suddenly cold, and wondered if his spirit was even now rising from his body to its eternal resting place. Or would it linger here, in my home? Would he go to hell? Or would Bram’s intervention allow him to enter heaven? Please, God, I silently prayed. Don’t let his spirit remain here.

First closing the dead man’s eyes, George found a napkin on the sideboard and wiped his own hands, his mouth. He found another, and gently draped it over the dead man’s face. ‘There’s no more can be done. I for one need a drink.’

Without waiting to see how anyone else felt, he went to the drawing room. We all followed – the policemen, too. We stood dazed in the light-filled room. George poured whiskies, the peelers taking theirs gratefully.

There was an odd formality, a stiffness to this gathering as if no-one, not even the policemen, knew quite how to act. All I could think about was the corpse across the hall. Again, George came to the rescue, arranging for Mrs Daw to pay an errand boy to fetch the coroner. Only then could the body be taken away.

‘How long will that take?’ I asked.

‘Could be a few hours, ma’am,’ said Sergeant Roberts, looking at his empty glass ruefully.

A few hours!

‘Still, we mustn’t forget the hero of the moment.’

It was as if a spell was broken. The policemen put down their glasses and with a fervour that seemed incongruous, considering what we’d just witnessed, slapped Bram on the back. They both shook his hand, then, trying to appear official, drew out their notebooks again, asking him to tell them in his own words what happened. George added his comments and questions; his praise, too. I sank into a chair, twisting my glass around.

Good God. A man had just died. In my house. On my dining table. Why were they asking Bram to retell what happened so many times? Why were they congratulating him? Were you still a hero when the man you tried to rescue died? This was a tragedy, surely. Why couldn’t they leave us alone? Take the man away?

Bram stood near the window as he spoke, casting occasional glances at the street where a crowd had assembled. He didn’t seem shaken or upset. On the contrary, he was enjoying the attention. He wasn’t even bothered by his wet clothes. The room, despite the fire, was very chilly. The faint odour of effluent lingered; Bram needed to change. And what about George, who’d pressed his lips to a dead man’s? Was the deserter still alive when George started his ministrations? If so, why hadn’t he survived? What had he done that God hadn’t intervened and saved his life? Given him another chance?