Will Thomas - Fatal Enquiry

“Mr. Intruder,” I said. Sometimes I’m too cocky for my own good.

The fellow kicked at my knee with one of his hobnailed boots, which I avoided, but not the blow to my head with the butt of his pistol.

“Take ’im downstairs to the cellar and tie him up.”

I half recall being dragged through a corridor and down a flight of steps. There was blood in my eyes and trickling down my collar, but I hoped it looked worse than it actually was. The two men who carried me, a stocky fellow in a sailor’s jumper and another with the sleeves of his shirt cut off, thrust me in a chair and methodically tied me to it.

That was as far as it went. They didn’t hurt me, and they didn’t speak to me, nor did they see to any of my comforts. I was left alone to contemplate what a complete idiot I was. I had marched right here and turned myself over to them.

A very long time later the cellar door opened and Sebastian Nightwine came down.

“Mr. Llewelyn, how nice to see you again,” he said, allowing one of his lieutenants to remove his duck-fabric jacket. He slipped out his cuff links and rolled up his sleeves.

“You don’t look so well,” he said, examining my wound. I shook off his attentions with a toss of my head. “Your spirit is still strong, however, which is the main thing.”

I watched as he took a length of rope, tied a knot in one end, and held it in the palm of his hand. It was a tough sailor’s hemp and it made a rasping noise as he wrapped it around his knuckles. I watched his underlings wrap his other hand.

“Where is your master, then?” he asked.

“I don’t know and I wouldn’t tell you if I did.”

“Wrong answer,” he stated, and as the assembly watched with rapt attention he broke my nose. It was a straight punch just under the eyes, shattering the cartilage. Immediately, a torrent of blood gushed from my nostrils, staining my shirt and waistcoat. A cheer went up from the men surrounding me.

“No idea at all?” Nightwine asked. “I find that hard to believe. Surely you, as his assistant, are privy to all his bolt-holes. You must know somewhere he could be hiding.”

Before I could answer, he punched me on the chin, a hook that nearly broke my jaw, hurting as much the mandibles attached to my skull as the chin itself. This was going to be far worse than I had thought, even with a vivid and classically trained imagination.

The third punch brought a welt to my right cheek, and the fourth opened a cut over my left eyebrow. I lost count after that. The appearance of questioning me was moot; after the second punch I was no longer able to converse, anyway, so there wouldn’t have been a way for me to answer him even if I’d wanted to. Nightwine switched to my torso, jabbing his fist into my stomach and ribs time and again. Finally, he drove a punch from his knees straight into my solar plexus. My heart gave a lurch and I passed out.

I awoke later staring into a pool of blood at my feet. I was alone. There was no telling how long I had been unconscious. Both of my eyes were nearly swollen shut, and everything was on fire, my face a solid mask of agony. The gas jets were off and there was very little light coming in from the window behind me. It must be evening already.

I thought it unlikely Nightwine would check on me again until the next day. No one would come to feed me, and they must be certain I was unconscious for the night. The last thing they expected, then, was that I would try to escape.

Slowly, methodically, I began testing the knots, doing my best to work my way out of them. There must be no strong tugging, which would only tighten the ropes further. The roughness chafed and cut my flesh, and I was near to passing out from the pain, but I persisted. I could do this. It was my only chance. The blood when it came greased the rope further. After about forty-five minutes my left hand was free and five minutes later I was out of the chair and hobbling up the stair.

I opened the door at the top, and found the hall deserted. Slipping across to the back door, I let myself out. Sprinting as quickly as I could to the back gate, I had to stop for a full minute in plain sight for my vision to clear. Then I went through the gate and got lost in a network of back alleys. At some point, walking became impossible, and I began to crawl.

It was impossible to raise my head anymore and I was forced to count the paving stones in front of me. Somewhere around number thirty-nine a woman screamed. That was enough, I told myself, and collapsed. Rolling on my back, I contemplated the stars overhead for a moment and I recognized Cassiopeia. After that, I don’t remember anything at all.

De Quincey, in his Confessions of an English Opium-Eater , complained of the debilitating aspects of laudanum. The Chinese call it “eating clouds.” The mind floats free, full of delusions of wonder and grandeur, and yet one is tethered to the earth by the ignominy of one’s digestive tract, which is ruined by the drug. The only way I’ve found to get over it is to take it as long as the doctor tells you and then to smash the bottle. Never keep laudanum or laudanum-based elixirs in the cupboard; it is a siren singing mischief. One sip, it sings. Just a tiny sip. I’ll ease your pain . Laudanum helps one up over the scraping edge of agony, but sometimes I wonder if it would be better to simply endure the pain.

All my teeth felt loose and the bones in my face ached. My ribs, which had sustained hit after hit from Nightwine, were bandaged so tightly I could barely breathe. My wrists, which had been bloody and numb from being tied behind my back, were swathed in gauze and a sharp pain pulsed up and down my arm.

“Where am I?” I asked to someone hovering nearby. I regretted speaking, for it broke the crust of scabs around my mouth and the gauze stretched painfully across my face.

“The Priory of St. John,” a voice said. “It is a private hospital.”

I thought for a moment I knew that voice. I turned my head slowly and saw a form standing in the doorway whom I did not recognize. The pain, which came from more parts of my body than I could count at that moment, seized control of me and I cried out.

“It’s all right,” the man said. “Try to rest.”

It was easier to do as he said than to think for myself. I closed my eyes and slept again. Sometime later, who knows how long, Sofia Ilyanova’s features came into focus from far off, like a view through the wrong end of a telescope.

“How long have I been here?” I asked.

“Two days,” she answered.

“God,” I said. I wasn’t certain whether I was calling for help or simply uttering an interjection. Probably both. I was staring at a cross on the opposite wall, with Christ’s body writhing on it. My laudanum-addled mind wanted to pull the pins and let him down. “What are you doing here?”

“Seeing what my brute of a father has done to you.”

“Any word from Mr. Barker?” I asked hopefully.

“None. Perhaps he doesn’t know you’re here.”

“He knows,” I answered, though it still hurt to speak. My lungs contracted painfully with each breath. “Wherever he is, he knows.”

A pair of cool hands lifted mine and held them. I didn’t mind that at all. We sat in companionable silence, and I savored her icy fingers.

“Is he awake?” a man’s voice eventually interrupted. A heavily mustached fellow in a dark suit stood by the bed. Was it the same man who had been there before? I wasn’t certain. He took my hand away from Sofia, and pressed his thumb against the veins of my wrist. His hands were as dry and callused as he was. The steady throb of blood pumping through my veins told me Thomas Llewelyn had survived yet another scrape. I was awfully short in the tooth to be an old warhorse.