Not A Noble Death

“The immediate cause of death,” the young doctor solemnly pronounced, “was cessation of breathing.”

The older of the two constables sitting across the desk in the doctor’s office said, “Shesh-ay…?”

“Cessation,” the doctor repeated patiently, spelling the word.  “When someone ceases breathing, they die.  It’s as simple as that.”

The constable’s stubby pencil was poised over his worn notepad.  “An wot caused the shesh-ay…the breathin’ to stop?”

“Well, His Lordship died, Constable,” the doctor explained tolerantly.  “When someone dies, they stop breathing.”  As he spoke, he smiled winningly at the younger constable, a comely, young woman who was finding herself unsettlingly drawn to the handsome doctor. 

At pains not to let that show in front of her partner, however, and wanting to appear knowledgeable, she merely said, “Indeed.”

The older constable furrowed his brow.  “Yes, well just so’s I’m clear then, Doctor Anwilling, you’re tellin’ us ‘Is Lordship died ‘cause ‘e stopped breathin’, an’ you’re tellin’ us ‘e stopped breathin’ ‘cause ‘e died?”

“Precisely,” Anwilling said.  “Both are true, one hundred percent of the time.  We know it as asphyxia.” 

“Ass-fix…?” the older constable said, pencil poised once again.

“Asphyxia,” the younger constable said quickly, spelling it for her colleague.  She was rewarded by another smile from the doctor, which elicited a pleasing flush beneath her uniform.

“An’ you’re tellin’ us ’Is Lordship died in the lady’s bedchamber, is that correct?” the older constable said, tossing an irritated look at his younger partner.

“That is correct, Constable,” Anwilling said.

“An’ you were there at the time?  In ‘Er Ladyship’s bedchamber?”

“I was, at the express behest of Her Ladyship, of course,” the doctor smiled, casting a sidelong glance at the younger constable whom he was finding deliciously, curvaceously attractive in her starched, blue blouse and skirt falling to just above her knees.  “And a good thing I was, as I was able to administer timely aid to His Lordship in his distress.”

“To no avail,” the older constable said.

“Alas, no,” Anwilling said.  “His Lordship was not a well man, as you may know.  Advancing age, obesity, gout, a propensity for Port wine and fine cigars—all are known contributors to declining health among the nobility.  But I daresay, his was not a noble death.”

“An’ exac’ly ‘ow old was ‘e?” the older constable asked. 

“I believe he was in his mid-sixties chronologically,” the doctor said.  “But he was effectively much older from a medical standpoint, I’m afraid.  A dead man walking, if I may coin a phrase.”

“I understand Her Ladyship is much younger than her husband,” the younger constable ventured.  “Her late husband, I should say.”

“Indeed,” Anwilling said with a warm smile.  “The lady is still of child-bearing years in her early-thirties, and quite pleasing to the eye.  She has been trying for some time—unsuccessfully, unfortunately—to provide her husband with an heir to the Duchy.  It was his fondest wish.”

The older constable was trying to get this all down in his notepad, stopping now and then to lick the point of his pencil.  “So, ‘ow is it you know this?”

“Well, as I am Her Ladyship’s personal physician,” the doctor said equably, “it is my job to know such things.  Professional ethics preclude my going into detail, as I’m sure you will understand.  Suffice to say, the lady and I have been engaged for some time in the administering of certain medical prescriptions and procedures to increase the chance that she may come to flower.”

“May we presume that is what you were doing when His Lordship entered the lady’s bedchamber that night?” the younger constable asked, her pulse quickening.

“You may,” Anwilling replied, eyes twinkling impishly. 

The constable thought his smile more mischievous this time, too, but her colleague appeared not to notice.  “An’ wot exac’ly ‘appened when ‘Is Lordship entered the chamber?” he asked.

The doctor took a few moments to collect his thoughts.  “As I recall, he surprised us by entering the bedchamber unexpectedly.  After uttering a brief exclamation, he staggered to the nearest chair, into which he collapsed, only to expire from what I subsequently determined to be hypoxic anoxia.”

“High-pox…?”  The stubby pencil was poised yet again.

“Hypoxic anoxia,” the doctor said, spelling the words slowly.

“It means he strangled to death,” the younger constable said, anxious to garner Anwilling’s further approval.  “Same as asphyxia.”

The doctor graciously favoured her with another enticing smile.

The tip of the older constable’s tongue was protruding between his teeth as he laboriously printed the words into his notepad.  “An’ what did you do at that point?” he asked the doctor, pointedly ignoring his partner’s clarification.

“Well, as I was in the middle of administering a medically-prescribed procedure to Her Ladyship at the time, I finished as quickly as I decently could, then rushed to His Lordship’s aid.  Alas, to no avail, as you have already noted.”

Astonished by her sudden boldness, feeling her cheeks flushing, the younger constable asked, “I wonder, Doctor, have your ministrations assisted the lady in her quest to provide an heir?”

“I believe Her Ladyship is grateful for my efforts,” the doctor answered, smiling roguishly this time.  “But to date, my efforts have been unfruitful.  Nevertheless, we plan to continue for as long as there is hope.”

Snapping his notebook closed, the older constable stuck his pencil behind his ear.  “Right then, I think we ‘ave all wot we need, Doctor.  Sounds like death by natural causes, which is what I thought all along. Thank you for your time, an’ please pass along our condolences to the widow.”  Rising stiffly, he shook hands and headed out the office door without further ado.

The younger constable hung back a moment.  Leaning across the doctor’s desk, she whispered, “Are you accepting new patients, Doctor?  I, too, find myself unable to become preggers, despite my husband’s best efforts.  I fear he is not polished in the art of child-making.”

With a knowing smile, the doctor handed her a velour business card.  “Indeed I am,” he whispered back.

The constable glanced at the card before pocketing it.  “Dr. Abel Anwilling,” she smiled.  “Thank you for your time.”

Outside the office, the older constable turned to her.  “Well, that weren’t of any ‘elp.  Snotty doctor didn’t give us much at all.”

“Not yet,” his partner smiled demurely.

_{© J. Bradley Burt 2022}