There was no TO LET sign in any of the windows, all of which were covered in heavy drapes. I could not see any light coming from within. I passed by and turned at the end of the street, coming back to the door. Leaning casually against it, I listened for any sound coming from inside. Possibly those were voices I heard, but they could just as easily have been the normal sounds in a settling house. I couldn’t decide. Walking to the end of the street a second time I turned to my left and continued on, eventually finding an alley leading to the back of the row of semidetached villas.
Some houses look very different from the back. Luckily, it was not difficult to spot the white stone of Nightwine’s former residence. I made my way to the back gate and lifted the latch. The garden behind the house looked innocent enough. There was a good-sized larch tree, a couple of outbuildings, and a lawn in need of cutting. An empty wine bottle lay in the grass. Was it left here by an inhabitant of the house, or had someone thrown it from the alleyway? Again, there was no way to be certain. The windows in the back appeared to be covered in some kind of dark paper. One pane was not covered and I looked in where I supposed the kitchen to be. There were signs that it was lived in, crates on the floor and dishes in the sink, like the ones left at our house by the Elephant and Castle gang. I was just thinking to check whether the back door was locked when it opened suddenly and half a dozen rough-looking men swarmed out. I went into a defensive posture, but one of them, presumably the leader, pulled a pistol from the waistband of his trousers and pointed it at me. Some might say the modern pistol has rendered the old blood sports obsolete.
“Oo’ve we got here, then?” the man with the gun asked. He was tall and thin but intelligent looking, in a cunning way. “Looks like an intruder. What’s your name?”
“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.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
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.