Farriers' Lane - Anne Perry [3]
Back in box fourteen Samuel Stafford was now lying well towards the rear, out of the gaze of the inquisitive who might prefer the real drama to the one still following its course on the stage. The actors’ discipline was sufficient to help them ignore any disturbance in the audience. Livesey had taken off his jacket and rolled it up under Stafford’s head and he was kneeling beside him, peering at him with profound concern. Juniper Stafford sat on the other seat, leaning forward, her face intent on her husband’s comatose form. His breath was even slower and the flush had gone from his skin. He looked white and clammy and he made no movement at all except for the faint rise and fall of his chest. His limbs were perfectly still. Charlotte knelt beside Juniper, her arm around her, holding one of her hands.
“The manager has sent for a doctor,” Pitt said quietly, although he knew even as he said it that it would be of little use, and certainly too late.
Livesey felt for Stafford’s pulse and then straightened up, biting his lip. He looked at Pitt. “Thank you,” he said simply. His eyes expressed both the hopelessness of it and the warning not to speak in front of Juniper.
There was a very tentative rap on the door.
“Come in.” Livesey looked at Pitt, then at the door. Surely it was too soon for a doctor, unless he had been not only in the theater, but in this tier of boxes as well.
The door opened, and Pitt recognized the smooth, dark face of Adolphus Pryce, Q.C. The man was embarrassed. His eyes went first to Juniper Stafford, hunched in her seat, clinging to Charlotte, then to the figure of Samuel Stafford on the floor. Even in the poor light reflected from the dim box lamps, and up from the brilliance of the stage across the auditorium, it was only too obvious he was in an extreme stage of illness.
“What happened?” Pryce asked very quietly. “Can—can I help? Is there—” He broke off. It was perfectly. plain there was nothing anyone could do without medical skill, and possibly not even then. “Mrs. Stafford?”
Juniper said nothing but stared at him with huge, desperate eyes.
“Yes,” Charlotte said firmly. “If you would be so kind as to fetch a glass of cold water, and perhaps make sure that Mrs. Stafford’s carriage has no difficulty in reaching the door, so that when it is time to go she does not have to wait.”
“Of course! Yes, yes, naturally I shall.” Pryce seemed to be immensely grateful for something positive to do. He looked for a moment more at Juniper, then turned on his heel and went out so rapidly that he brushed past a short man with gingerish hair in wild disarray and small, plump, very clean hands.
He came in and instinctively addressed Livesey as being the presiding authority in the matter.
“I am Dr. Lloyd. The manager said—Ah! Yes, I see.” He stared down at Stafford on the floor, now scarcely breathing at all. “Oh, dear, oh dear me. Yes.” He knelt down, peering at Stafford’s face. “What is it? Do you know? Heart attack, I shouldn’t wonder.” He felt for a pulse, his face looking increasingly worried. “Mr. Justice Stafford, you say? I’m afraid I don’t care for the look of him very much.” He touched Stafford’s pallid face with his hand. “Clammy,” he pronounced, pushing out his lip. “Can you tell me what happened, sir?” This last was addressed to Livesey.
“The onset of the illness appeared quite rapid,” Livesey replied, speaking in a clear voice, but very quietly. “I was sitting in the next box, and I saw him sink forward in his seat, so I came to see if I could be of assistance. At first I thought perhaps a stomach upset, or something of the sort, but I’m afraid now it does seem to be something a good deal more grave.”
“He does not appear to have … vomited,” the doctor remarked.
“No—no, indeed,” Livesey agreed. “And of course it may in fact be his heart as you suggested, but he did not complain of pain while he was conscious, and he seems to have been in something of a stupor since quite early on, almost drowsy, one might say.”
“He was very flushed when I first came,” Pitt offered.