Death and the Arrow

by Chris Priestley

  “Well now, this is a much better place for a quiet chat,” said Shepton. “Look at him, Fisher. We’ve gone and frightened the poor mite. Calm yourself, lad. We just want to talk, that’s all. I promise you I’ll not hurt you. We just want to know what that crazy soldier told you before he was so brutally dispatched.”

  “He said he thought he was being followed by a demon,” said Tom.

  Shepton laughed loudly. “Do you hear that, Fisher? A demon! He was a bigger fool than we took him for.”

  “The boy knows nothing. Let’s just kill him and be done,” said Fisher. “All this talk makes me ache.”

  “Fisher!” shouted Shepton, and pushed him out of the way. “Take no heed, son. You’ll come to no harm from me, I swear it. Now, what else did our brave sergeant tell you?”

  “He thought that you were dead. That you had saved his life,” said Tom. Shepton laughed again. “But Dr. Harker knew it was a trick!” said Tom. “He knows you stole the silver.”

  Shepton grabbed Tom by the collar and pulled him close. “Oh, dear me,” he said. “Here I am, talking all friendly like, and there you are talking me to the gallows. But I promised you I’d not hurt you, and I’m a man of my word.” He smiled once more, and then his face became blank. “Kill him, Fisher.”

  At that moment, a maid opened a door into the alley and Tom bundled past her and into the house. The maid screamed, but Tom ran through the hall and out the front door, onto the street. He could hear Fisher close behind, and he ran without giving thought to the direction.

  “Stop, thief!” called Fisher, using the same trick as Shepton. Tom ducked down an alleyway to avoid a butcher’s boy who tried to block his path with a cart. Fisher was only fifty yards behind him as he tumbled out in front of St. Paul’s Cathedral.

  As Fisher started to catch up with him, Tom ran hell-for-leather up the cathedral steps. Fisher lunged for him but missed and fell, cursing his prey and rubbing his bruised knee. Tom ducked between the massive stone columns of the west front and in through the open door.

  He felt more exposed than ever in the vastness of the cathedral: the scale of the building only served to make him feel more vulnerable. It seemed to take an age to reach the cover of a stone pillar; he ducked behind, hoping Fisher had not seen him.

  Fisher entered the cathedral like a thunderclap; his boot heels clattered on the stone floor, echoing round the cavernous nave, then squeaked to a halt. Tom dropped silently to the floor and began to crawl away from the sound. There was a group of gentlemen only a few yards away. If he could just reach them, he would be safe. Fisher would not kill him with witnesses.

  “I am a constable,” shouted Fisher, his voice booming round the building. “I do not wish to alarm you, but there is an escaped felon in the cathedral. He is a convicted murderer, but he is but a boy and armed only with a butcher’s knife. Could any of you good gentlemen assist me?” Just as Fisher had known it would, the cathedral emptied in seconds.

  “’Tis just the two of us now, boy!” he shouted. “And what better place to meet your maker?”

  Tom crawled away from the voice. His breath roared in his ears like a storm and his heart seemed to be booming out in the silence. Silence! Tom suddenly realized that he could no longer hear Fisher’s footsteps. Somehow the silence seemed more dreadful.

  He held his breath and peeped round the base of a column. There was no one there. He retreated behind the column again, fighting to catch his breath. The door seemed so far away, but he had to try and reach it; he might not get another chance. He got to his feet and looked again; still no Fisher. He took a deep breath and ran toward the door.

  Tom had not run two yards before a foot shot out from behind a column and sent him sprawling across the floor. It was Fisher. He strode forward and, in one movement, dragged Tom to his feet. He pulled the boy toward him by his lapels with one hand, holding an open clasp knife in the other. Tom could see his own frightened face reflected in its blade.

  Fisher smiled and Tom brought his knee up with as much force as he could muster, hitting his attacker solidly between the legs. Fisher groaned and cursed and loosened his grip on Tom just enough for him to break free and run. But Fisher still blocked his exit; Tom was forced to run back into the cathedral.

  Pain slowed Fisher down for a few seconds, but anger is a powerful anesthetic, and he was furious. He was soon only yards behind Tom, who feared he was now trapped; but then he saw an open door and made a dash for it. Fisher was after him immediately.

  The door opened onto a spiral staircase, and Tom ran up the steps, two at a time. He could hear Fisher at his heels, and his breath came in gasps, the muscles in his legs begging him to stop, but fear and willpower urged him onward and upward.

  His heart was thumping against his rib cage as he burst through a door that led out onto a circular gallery inside the dome. Tom looked over the balcony to see the sunburst pattern in the stone floor far below. He pulled himself back from the edge, dizzy with vertigo and breathlessness.

  “Where now, boy?” said Fisher as he too emerged into the gallery.

  Tom did not answer, but set off through another door and found himself climbing yet more steps, climbing for all he was worth in the dark, with Fisher scrabbling up behind him. Tom could hear Fisher’s breath as he made for a small door ahead of him.

  As he opened it, he gasped with the realization that he was now at the top of the dome, on a tiny parapet looking down on the whole of London, which was spread out below him. But even more extraordinary than this was the incredible spectacle taking place in the sky above.

  Suddenly Fisher grabbed him. “Now, lad,” he said, “let’s see if we can’t find you a quicker way down.” But then he too became aware of the otherworldly darkness. “What the...?”

  The sun turned black and the shadow of the moon rushed toward them across the hills and over London, until it plunged the city into another night. Tom and Fisher both stared in wonder as a luminous ring appeared round the black disk of the moon, a weird mother-of-pearl glow.

  Flashes of light shot out and shimmered, and then the edge of the moon turned blood-red. Both hunter and prey were rooted to the spot with some kind of animal terror, but it was Tom who came to his senses first.

  He pushed Fisher away and shrugged off his grip. Fisher, still mesmerized by the eclipse, staggered backward, correcting his balance too late to stop himself from flipping over the railing. He screamed as he slithered down the curving roof, bouncing once before plummeting out of sight.

  Tom made his way down to ground level and managed to slip away as a small crowd gathered round Fisher’s body. Someone shouted that he had the Death and the Arrow card on him, and more people ran up to take a look.

  Tom walked through the gloomy streets as the sun began to reappear from behind the moon. Sparrows twittered and pigeons cooed at this false dawn, and church bells rang out in celebration of the world’s return to daylight.

  However, Tom’s only thought was to reach Dr. Harker’s house safely, and he walked the whole way in dread of seeing Shepton’s evil face appear in front of him again.

  “Tom?” said Dr. Harker after the maid had showed him up to the roof. “Whatever became of you?”

  Tom fought to catch his breath, then told the doctor and Ocean about his escape.

  “Good Lord,” said Dr. Harker. “This must end, Tom. There is too much danger. You could have been killed.”

  “No!” shouted Tom. “Not now. I have to know what happened to Will. I won’t have Will’s life forgotten, and neither you nor my father nor anyone else will stop me.”

  THE DOOR IN THE ROOF

  Tom and Dr. Harker were alone in a courtyard—alone, that is, apart from a rat, which hurried away at their approach and scuttled out of sight behind a woodpile. A window creaked open above them and a maid sang quietly from inside. Dr. Harker looked about him. He had brought Tom to the scene of the first Death and the Arrow murder to see if they could find any clues to what had happened the
re.

  “So, Tom, what do you see?”

  “Well, sir,” said Tom, “it’s as they said. There is but the one entrance behind us, and anyone escaping that way would be seen.”

  “That’s true, Tom,” said Dr. Harker. “We are surrounded by buildings on all sides. There are three doors, as you see, but all three are locked and bolted from the inside. The unfortunate Leech could have been shot from one of those windows, of course, but the occupants are lawyers, men of high standing, and there was no report of an intruder.”

  “Then how...?”

  “How indeed?” said Dr. Harker, smiling. He put his hand on Tom’s shoulder. “Remember our visit to Dr. Cornelius?”

  “Yes, Doctor,” said Tom, and he shuddered slightly at the memory. “Of course.”

  “Remember the body, Tom. Remember what Dr. Cornelius said about the arrow.”

  Tom tried to remember. “I think he said the arrow was angled as if it came from above.”

  “Good, Tom. That he did,” said Dr. Harker. “Now, what of the sergeant? Do you remember what he said?”

  Tom half closed his eyes and looked down at his feet, deep in thought. “Yes,” he said suddenly. “He said that it was as if the arrow came from the clouds.”

  “Excellent! He did,” said Dr. Harker, pointing upward. “The arrow, it seems, came from above.”

  “But from where, sir?” said Tom, confused. “You said it could not have come from the windows.”

  “Not from the windows, Tom,” said Dr. Harker. “From the roof!”

  Tom looked up. From where they were standing there was hardly any view of the roofs at all, but he could see enough to know that they were too steep for a man to stand on without sliding off to his death. He turned back to Dr. Harker to find that he was knocking at one of the courtyard’s three locked doors.

  “Good day,” said the doctor with a bow as the door was opened. A pale and gaunt-looking clerk eyed him suspiciously through a narrow gap. “I have Mr. Garrison’s kind permission to gain access to the roof.”

  “Yes . . . ,” said the clerk without opening the door farther.

  “Then would you be so kind as to show my young friend the way?”

  “Me, sir?” said Tom a little nervously. He was not keen to enjoy a further acquaintance with the skeletal clerk nor to test his head for heights once more so soon after his experience on the dome of St. Paul’s.

  “Would you, Tom? Splendid!” Somehow Tom seemed to have volunteered without knowing it.

  The clerk opened the door a little farther, but Tom still had to squeeze through. “Take the stairs to the top of the house,” he was instructed. “There you will find a door barred by three bolts. Mind your step as you leave it or it will be your last.”

  “Thank you,” said Tom, but the clerk had not finished.

  “Do not enter any other door. Do not touch anything you may find on the way. Rebolt the roof door on your return.” With that, the clerk walked away down the hall.

  Tom looked up at the dimly lit stairwell and began to climb. At each flight the house appeared more and more unused, and a cloud of dust rose with his every step. Cobwebs tickled his face and piles of yellowing papers clogged the landings. The treads creaked like the planks of a ship and the rotten banister swayed at his touch.

  When Tom reached the top of the staircase, there was, just as the clerk had described, a small but heavy oak plank door, bordered by metal bands bolted to the wood and fixed in place by three massive steel bolts.

  The first two bolts moved readily enough, but the third seemed as if it had not been moved since the day the door was hung. Tom had to brace himself against the wall with his feet and use all his strength to shift it. Finally, with one huge last effort, he freed it and lifted the latch. He was thankful to the clerk for his warning: the door opened up onto a treacherously steep roof, and had he stepped out onto those greasy tiles, he felt sure that it would indeed have been his last step.

  To make matters worse, the opening was not above the courtyard but above the alley on the other side of the building. To gain any view at all of the courtyard would mean climbing over the roof. Tom hesitated and thought about going back downstairs. Then he thought of Will and looked back up at the roof ridge.

  He edged out of the door and immediately lost his footing, sending a tile skittering down onto the street below. There was a distant crash, a distant curse. He gripped the doorframe for all he was worth.

  The doorway was housed in a small projection from the main body of the roof, and Tom managed to scrabble on top of it. Kneeling precariously, he used this as a platform from which to reach the summit. He flung an arm, and then a leg, over the roof ridge. Soon he sat straddled across it as if he were riding a donkey. A crow eyed him curiously from its perch on a chimney pot.

  Tom called down to the doctor way below him in the courtyard.

  “Tom!” he heard in reply. “Be careful, lad!”

  “I will! It’s a fine view!” he shouted, trying to sound more relaxed than he was.

  “What can you see? Is there space for a man to hide or stand?”

  “No, Doctor,” called Tom. “There are only the chimney stacks.” He looked down. “Wait—there is a ledge of sorts at the base of the roof, but it can only be a few inches wide.”

  “But could a man walk along it if it were on the ground?” called Dr. Harker.

  “If it were on the ground, I could walk on it,” called Tom. “But it is a hundred feet up!”

  “Then we are looking for a murderer with a head for heights!”

  “A tightrope walker!” shouted Tom with a sudden flash of inspiration. Of course! He had seen dozens of them. They could walk along a length of rope as easily as if they were strolling the pavement.

  “Perhaps,” said Dr. Harker, deep in thought. “Now come down before you fall down, lad.”

  Tom didn’t need to be asked twice. He swung one leg over the roof ridge and scuttled down toward the door on his heels and backside. As he clambered round to reenter the doorway, he thought he heard a noise behind him. He was about to turn round when something was put over his head, plunging him into darkness, and he was lifted off his feet and carried away across the rooftops.

  CAPTURED

  Tom was carried for some time, aware, in spite of his hood, of the amazing agility of his captor. This man might indeed be a tightrope walker. But there was something else about him—so agile and yet built powerfully enough to carry Tom as if he were nothing more than a rag doll. Tom could sense the sureness of his tread. He had struggled at first, but soon realized that it would not be in his interests to force the man to stumble.

  Eventually Tom was set down. He was seated, his back resting up against some support, his legs stretched out together straight in front of him. Before he could move, something was tied firmly round his waist and then round his wrists and feet.

  “Who . . . wh-who are you?” stuttered Tom. There was no reply. “Why have you brought me here? Please, sir.” Again there was no reply. He made a few more attempts at contact, but each one met with the same stony silence. As he spoke, the fabric of the hood caught between his lips. He pulled at it a little more until he had it between his teeth, then tugged a little; the hood began to move. He lowered his head to allow the hood free movement and worked it down a little more. No one tried to stop him, so he carried on. Inch by laborious inch he nibbled and tugged, until all at once the hood fell down in front of his face and he let out a cry of terror.

  He was tied to the charred roof beam of a large house. The house had once had four stories, but had been gutted—probably in the Great Fire some fifty years earlier. Not a floor remained to break Tom’s view of the rubble-strewn basement far below him.

  He gasped, and his heart beat wildly. He pressed back against the wall, but he was so securely tied he could not move more than an inch in any direction. He yelled out, “Help! Somebody! Help!” but no one came. He could not move, but neither could he fall. At least he was safe
from that immediate danger. But what of his captor? Who and where was he? And what fate awaited Tom upon his return?

  These thoughts and many others swirled round Tom’s mind as day gave way to evening and evening to night. He called out every now and then, but to no avail, and despite all his efforts to stay awake, as a full moon rose between the skeleton of roof beams and trusses, he fell fast asleep.

  It seemed only seconds later when he opened his eyes, but it was now dawn and a strange pinkish light washed over his prison, making it somehow seem even stranger and more terrifying. Then he heard a noise from the foot of the building.

  He looked down to see a figure far below him; it was a man in black, wearing a three-cornered hat and tumbling periwig. Tom was about to shout out when the man began, with astonishing speed and sure-footedness, to climb up the wall. He began to wonder if the sergeant had not been right after all when he claimed that this was not a man, but some kind of demon.

  In no time at all, the man appeared on one of the beams at the opposite gable end of the building. There seemed no way for the man to cross the gap between them, for the beams ran crosswise, not along the length of the house.

  As Tom was considering this, the man pulled himself up one of the rafters and onto the ridge beam to which all the rafters rose. Tom thought of his own fear sitting astride the ridge tiles of the lawyer’s house and marveled at the fearlessness of his captor. The man got to his feet and walked along the beam, as untroubled as if he were strolling along a wide city street. He never once paused for balance, but walked steadily and gracefully, looking straight ahead until, in one easy movement, he dropped down in front of Tom.

  A rafter blocked Tom’s view of the man and, try as he might, he could not move enough to catch even a glimpse of him. He could see his captor’s feet, though, and noticed he was wearing the strangest shoes. They were made of some kind of pale leather, minutely decorated with tiny colored beads and patterned stitching. He had seen something of the kind before, but he could not remember where.