I, Richard - Elizabeth George [9]
Several of the German tourists clapped appreciatively. The guide said, “It's a Gibb door. Clever, isn't it? Servants could come and go through it and never be seen in the public rooms of the house.”
Cameras clicked in the guide's direction. Necks craned. Voices murmured.
And that's when it happened.
The guide was saying, “I'd like you to especially take note of—” when events conspired to interrupt her.
Someone gasped, “Hon! Nor! Hon!” and someone else cried, “Oh my God!” A third voice called out, “Watch out! Ralph's going down!”
And in short order, that's exactly what happened. Ralph Tucker gave an inarticulate cry and crashed down onto one of Abinger Manor's valuable satinwood tables. He upset an enormous flower arrangement, smashed a porcelain bowl of potpourri which sent its contents flying across the Persian carpet, and toppled the table onto its side. This, in effect, ripped the velvet cord from its brass posts down the entire length of the room as Ralph landed in an unmoving heap on the floor.
Noreen Tucker shrieked, “Ralph! Sweetie pie!” and plunged through the crowd to get to her spouse. She pulled on his shoulder as chaos broke out around her. People pressed forward, others backed away. Someone began praying, someone else cursing. Three German women fell onto sofas that were available now that the line of demarcation was gone. A man shouted for water while another called for air.
There were thirty-two people in the room with absolutely no one in charge since the guide—whose training had been limited to memorizing salient details about the furnishings of Abinger Manor and not first aid—stood rooted to the floor as if she herself had had some part in whatever had just happened to Ralph Tucker.
Voices came from every direction.
“Is he… ?”
“Jesus. He can't be…”
“Ralph! Ralphie!”
“Sie ist gerade ohnmdchtig geworden, nicht wahr…”
“Someone call an ambulance, for God's sake.” This last was said by Cleve Houghton, who'd managed to fight his way through the crowd and who had dropped to his knees, had taken one look at Ralph Tucker's face, and had begun administering CPR. “Now!” he shouted at the guide who finally roused herself, flew through the Gibb door, and pounded up the stairs.
“Ralphie! Ralphie!” Noreen Tucker wailed as Cleve paused, took Ralph's pulse, and went back to CPR.
“Kami er nicht etwas unternehmen?” one of the Germans cried as another said, “Schauen Sie sich die Gesichtsfarbe an.”
It was then that Thomas Lynley joined Cleve, removing his jacket and handing it over to Helen Clyde. He eased through the crowd, straddled the elephantine figure of Ralph Tucker, and took over the heart massage as Cleve Houghton moved to Ralph's mouth and continued blowing into the man's lungs.
“Save him, save him!” Noreen cried. “Help him. Please!”
Victoria Wilder-Scott reached her side. She said, “They're helping him, dear. If you'll come this way…”
“I won't leave my Ralph! He just needed to eat.”
“Is he choking?” someone asked.
“Have you tried the Heimlich?”
And the tour guide crashed back into the room. She called out, “I've just phoned…” But her words faltered, then stopped. She could see as well as everyone else that the two men working on the body on the floor were attempting to revive what was already a corpse.
Thomas Lynley took charge at this point. He brought forth his warrant card and showed it to the guide, saying quietly, “Thomas Lynley. New Scotland Yard. Have someone tell my aunt—Lady Fabringham—there's been a mishap