'My fate?’ If I were you, old boy, I would put the eating off a lot more than the business, Purdue jousted with Karsten inside his mind, if only to distract himself from the disturbing reference to his 'fate.’ Maybe it was Purdue's lack of money or resources that rendered him helpless, but he felt that having Nina Gould and Sam Cleave with him would have lifted his spirits considerably. Even the thought of his most trusted allies gave Purdue reason not to accept the hand he was being currently dealt.
Mother stood silently in the corner, watching with another glass of bourbon in her hand, waiting for Karsten to approve his order. Purdue could not help but find her body impossible to fathom. Tall and slender, she looked like a perfect example of early 20th century screen goddesses, bar of course, her face, which was the only indication of her age and some unfortunate genetics. Her long white dress fell to the floor in immaculate form over the symmetry of her shape. Her troll-like eyes pierced his when he looked higher than her neck.
“What is the matter, Mr. Purdue?” she asked confidently.
“A lot is the matter, actually, but I fear that holds very little currency at this meeting,” Purdue replied smoothly. Beck leered at him, withholding the urge to slap him in the presence of his employer and the grand matriarch of the Black Sun. It was not his place anymore, since he had transferred Purdue to Karsten's charge. Mother's face remained unchanged at Purdue's response. She simply did not care enough to bat an eye.
“Right, when Mother is ready, we can have dinner. I believe Mr. Beck has more on his plate for tonight and he would like to conclude business,” Karsten declared politely, very impressed with his prize.
“Very well,” Mother replied, sounding bored beyond words with Karsten's tedious ritual. “Joseph, you can take Mr. Purdue to the oubliette while Mr. Beck and I will dish up the dinner. We will wait for you before we eat.”
“Of course, Mother,” Joseph Karsten agreed respectfully. “Come, Purdue.”
Confused, Purdue frowned at the developments, but he was too unsure to just ask. This Karsten character was quite different from his previous captor, and not someone to play with. There was something about him that kept Purdue wary of confronting him in any form. Karsten came across as an old world military man, which was probably why he shared Mother's penchant for military commanders, terrible leaders, and tyrants of nations.
Down a short kite-winder staircase made of old oak Karsten led Purdue, with only one single light fixture above their heads to light the way. A myriad of thoughts went through Purdue's head, among others the repetition of references to his fast approaching death being the most prominent along with Beck's constant subliminal suggestion as to a bribe. In any event, a deal was out of the question with the man leading him down into the floor level now. A peculiar fear crept into Purdue's psyche, a distant acquaintance of his heart, but one not often engaged. It was a fear of death, a growing terror that was beginning to seem all too real to the flamboyant billionaire since he had stepped into the out of place place.
“You know,” Karsten finally broke the silence, “there are a great many things the French are lacking as a nation, I find, but one thing that I do admire about some of their historical monarchs and generals is their exquisite aptitude for cruelty.”
It was not the sort of conversational piece Purdue would have hoped for, but true to his charm he was polite and ever so witty about things that frightened him. “Let me guess, you are fondly referring to their women? Or is it their abhorrence for obesity?”
As they came to the end of the stairwell where the solitary light could not reach, Purdue perceived a dark spot on the floor.
“I shall answer your question,” Karsten chuckled cruelly. Before Purdue could adjust his sight to accommodate the pitch dark he felt a violent push from behind that flung him hard into the floor. At first he thought that the impact would leave him stained by whatever darkened the floor, but only when his long legs folded into the dark spot did he realize that it was a hole.
Purdue fell blindly into the confined tubular entrance to the oubliette. The floor came sooner than he thought and shattered his left tibia on impact. Purdue screamed in the darkness, not even aware yet that the angle of his fall had narrowly prevented him from being impaled on an iron spike. It was one of five, positioned like the spots on a die, cemented into the floor under the confined neck of the trap.
“Oh dear, that does sound painful,” Karsten cackled from above, unseen from where Purdue was writhing on the floor. “What a pity that we have had to treat a former Renatus like this, but then again, you and your friend Sam Cleave did almost wipe out the entire elite membership of the Black Sun a few years ago in Poveglia, so I suppose we are allowed a margin for revenge.”
With that short introduction the trap door slammed and left the stunned Purdue alone in the pitch dark with his leg on fire, unable to move. He soon noticed that the oubliette sported small peepholes through which he could clearly hear the conversation in the dining room of the house. Famished, Purdue could not determine which punishment was worse — to have his lower leg snapped in two and shoved into the flesh or to smell the delectable odor of cooked food enjoyed by his detractors while his stomach was aching for nourishment. They did not even leave him any water to sustain him.
Still in shock from his injuries, Purdue was forced to listen to the others enjoy a delicious banquet while the stormy night continued outside their secure shelter of hedonistic glee. The conversation left him no clues or explanation, identification or cause. All they talked about was the next Puccini opera at the Festival Theatre and which of the mezzo-soprano's would be featured in London the following month.
Out of the blue Jonathan Beck started choking. Instead of the expected panic ensuing to assist him, the usual stampede for water or a first aid maneuver, Purdue heard only the sound of cutlery on porcelain as Mother and Karsten continued eating.
“My God, he is going to die if they don't help him,” Purdue whispered to himself as Beck began to convulse.
“Mother, I must compliment you on the splendid main course, especially,” Karsten flattered with a groveling smile on his fat face.
“Oh, do you like it? It has always been a personal favorite of mine, but Herr Beck is being treated to my Duck and Spaetzle Dumpling a la Zyklon B, the lucky devil,” she replied coolly and took a sip of her bourbon. “Although the name does not state the main ingredient — cyanide.”
“Ah,” Karsten answered with an interested nod to the tune of their third guest's profuse vomiting as he succumbed to a vicious seizure. Beck groped his chest in the agony of cardiac arrest that eventually blessed him with death on the dusty carpet on the floor of the house that stood out of place in the middle of Scotland.
“Second helping?” Mother asked.
“Bitte,” Karsten smiled and held out his plate.
Purdue passed out.
Chapter 21 — The Canuck
“With Purdue caught in purgatory we cannot expect him to fund this search, so we will have to shed our predisposed love for luxury during excursions,” Sam half-joked and half-confessed after he’d helped Nina map out their venture to Weather Station Kurt to pick up the trail of the gold that had cost Leslie Michaud her life back in 1981.
“I still think we should just try to make contact to let him know I’m not home, in case he shows up there,” Nina suggested. “He’s going to be crushed that he is missing out on this juicy treasure hunt, poor devil.”