For a moment his consciousness threatened to abandon him, but he kept himself on his feet and finally began running to find help.
Chapter 6
Hyacinth pounded on the panes of the door like a madman. He did not spare a thought for the neighbours he was rousing from their slumber or his aching fists which might break the glass and cut him. “Mr Wiplay!”
After what seemed an eternity, the old man descended the stairway. Wearing a nightshirt, a white nightcap and holding a candlestick in his right hand, he presented a sight that under ordinary circumstances might have made a person grin in amusement. But Hyacinth was in no mood for amusement.
“Mr Wiplay! Please, I need your help!” he yelled again, although the man was already poised to let him in.
Panting, Hyacinth lunged into the shop as soon as the door opened.
“For Heaven’s sake, what’s happened?” his mentor demanded and examined him with wide eyes. “Sit down, my boy.” He gently shoved him onto a nearby chair.
Hyacinth quickly placed his hands over his face and stifled tearless sobs which would have compromised his manliness. “They’ve arrested him! Please, you must help! What can I do? They’ve arrested him!”
“Oh no, oh no!” Wiplay exclaimed, grasping a corner of the counter to brace himself. His hands shook like Hyacinth‘s. “Not again. What have you boys done now?!”
Again? So, it was not the first time Vrila had been arrested?
“We… we had to… break in.” He didn’t know how much he should say, but finally came forward with what Gavrila had said: Stay with Seymour.
Mr Wiplay put the candlestick down, sank into a chair and brushed the back of his hand across his wrinkled forehead. “I… I don’t know what we should do. This break-in will likely bring him several months or years of prison if we don’t pay bail. And we probably can’t do that. I don’t have the money. I’d give it to you if I did.” His eyes became misty, and the usually turned up corners of his mouth were turned down in distress.
“Prison? Months or years?” Hyacinth repeated in disbelief and felt his panic give way to horror. He thought about Vrila, about his sickly condition and the cold prison cells which would be anything but beneficial to his health. “I can’t allow that. Tell me what I have to do to get him released.”
“They’ll demand money. It’s money or dungeon.”
“How much?” he asked impatiently and rubbed his fingers together until they hurt.
“It’s at the inspector’s discretion to judge case by case.”
“The inspector? Hathaway hates Vrila! He’ll choose an amount I can’t possibly raise!”
His mentor appeared irritated – perhaps because of the affectionate name which passed so casually over Hyacinth’s lips. “One way or another you won’t be able to. Even if we combined what we have, it wouldn’t be enough.”
“I won’t let him rot in a dungeon,” Hyacinth countered so sharply he regretted it a moment later when he noticed the old man’s despair. “Pardon my brusque tone; I’m unable to think clearly.” Actually, he was on the verge of tears.
Wiplay brushed it off, and for a time they drifted into a perplexing silence that enveloped them more and more.
So, money could help him. Abruptly an idea came to his mind and he leapt to his feet. “I thought of something. I have to leave!”
In an instant his teacher stood up and with pattering feet accompanied him to the door. “Young man, where are you going?!”
“I can’t tell you that, Sir.”
“Good Heavens, Hyacinth, stay here with me, like your husband ordered! Gavrila will single-handedly drive me to the gates of Hell if anything happens to you.”
Under different circumstances he would have felt like smiling. Obeying Vrila didn’t suit him at all – it would be a bad habit he absolutely didn’t wish to adopt. “Nothing is going to happen to me, but I have to get him out of there so he’ll be able to drive us both to the gates of Hell for not following his orders.” With those words he hurried into the cold night and ignored the man fearfully calling after him.
*
Gavrila was roughly tossed into a cell without anyone bothering to remove his handcuffs. They dug uncomfortably into his flesh and caused his shoulders to ache. An iron door closed behind him, a key turned in the lock, and he was alone. Alone inside the darkness of a cramped cell where a narrow pallet hung anchored to the wall.
Meanwhile it was snowing. The pale moon could still be seen shining through a tiny grill-covered slit near the ceiling. It also provided some fresh air.
How often would he see the sunrise through that slit before he would be set free again?
He lay down on the pallet which creaked under his weight.
The thought of once more enduring several months in one of these dismal cells caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand up. A bitter fear crept through his body as his memory of the guards’ beatings and the evil-tongued remarks of the prisoners nauseated him. He knew what it meant to be locked up in a dungeon. Once before he had spent three months behind those walls when he’d been caught trying to carry out one of Howard’s assignments.
His only consolation was that Hyacinth had managed to escape. No one had expressed any doubt that Gavrila committed the crime alone, and of course he had kept his mouth shut.
Now he hoped the boy would burn the piece of paper or let it float in the Meln rather than try to make contact with Howard.
Surely he wouldn’t do anything of the sort. Without a doubt he was thirsty for adventures, but that was no reason for him to involve himself in such matters. Certainly he felt relieved just to have escaped.
Maybe the lad was even relieved that he’d been arrested. And he himself believed it was better that way. Therefore, the charming young man would no longer be obliged to tolerate Gavrila’s hideous appearance and his dreadful company.
Remembering the cold fear in Hyacinth’s delicate features made him shudder. He was responsible for that. He shouldn’t have taken him along! However, the desire to have the lad nearby had been greater than his reason. Consequently he’d endangered the only precious thing in his disastrous life – an unpardonable transgression.
From this night on, his need to have Hyacinth close was more insatiable and implacable than ever. Now he sat in the city dungeon and would remain there until… Feeling tension in his throat, he refused to complete the thought that he would soon be forgotten by the entire world. No one gave a shit about him.
With a groan he struggled to keep the composure threatening to slip from his grasp. His hope that Seymour would take care of the youngster, helped ease his mind.
All at once his eyes burned like fire and to his horror had become wet. In response he made every effort to at least keep his ice-cold cheeks dry.
*
Finally Hyacinth approached his destination. Along the way, snowflakes had impeded his view. Melting immediately on the ground, they widened the muddy puddles he was heedlessly tramping through. His socks were completely soaked, but by God now was no time to be concerned with that. His frigid, wet feet were as insignificant to him as the cockroaches in a sleazy hotel would be to a king. All that mattered was Vrila!
As a glance at the clock tower showed him, Vrila would have already endured an hour in some kind of dungeon hole. Heavens, he couldn’t even think about… Surely his husband knew he was doing everything in his power to free him from that misery as quickly as possible. Hopefully it would give him enough strength to hold out for a while.
He didn’t know why he suddenly thought in such a protective frame of mind about his always hard-bitten and often mean-spirited spouse. Something inside him whispered that Vrila possessed more sensitivity than he’d have liked to admit. The man’s vulnerability showed to the utmost extent. That disquieted Hyacinth and moved him to descend the stairs to the Meln with unshakable decisiveness. Filled with anxiety, he held a firm grip on his pistol.
Next to him towered the pylons of the Pecan Bridge, w
hich during the day transported countless people, horses and their vehicles across the river. He hoped to find Perkovic under it.
A sharp odour of piss, alcohol and some other dreadful thing made his stomach rebel. His gaze swept across the numerous men in rags slumbering. A few of them were squatting on their makeshift sleep accommodations, holding bottles which they took a nip from every now and then.
To Hyacinth’s relief, hardly anyone paid him the least bit of attention. One old man glimpsed in his direction but immediately looked away with disinterest.
For a moment he allowed the misery to trouble him. The same fate had been in store for him had Vrila not intervened and had his father let him live that evening – which he highly doubted.
He felt sorry for those unfortunates and sighed because he knew how good he had it compared with such homeless souls.
With a deep breath he attempted to maintain a clear head. Diligently his eyes scanned for Perkovic who wasn’t anywhere to be seen.
Had it been wrong to come there? Should he have searched instead for Haggard who usually stayed somewhere near the municipal slaughter houses?
He rubbed his temples and uttered a muted curse. Had he merely run from one end of the city to the other and had just wasted valuable time? He couldn’t accept that.
Gathering his courage, he addressed a man crouching beside him on a makeshift camp of ragged clothes. His bare feet peeked from a blanket of sewn-together pantaloons and were stiff from filth and dried blood. “Pardon me, but where can I find Sergei Perkovic?”
The old man stared at him from sombre eyes, one of which appeared to be blind, and pointed without a word to the riverbank. Hyacinth followed the line of sight from his dirty finger with its long nail and eventually perceived a brown head of curls protruding from the surface of the water. Heavens, what was the man doing out there? The Meln must have been ice-cold!
“Thank you.” He nodded faintly and handed the homeless man a bronze coin which he accepted with a toothless smile.
Incredulous, he followed the downward sloping pavement until he stood at the water’s edge. It swashed in smooth, tranquil waves onto the stony embankment.
He noticed a pile of clothes next to him. It had to be Perkovic’s.
“Sergei!” he yelled as loudly as he could, but the man didn’t react.
Not until he’d once again importuned with his gravelly voice and netted a gruff ‘Quiet!’ from one of the homeless men, did Perkovic turn around toward him.
With impatience, Hyacinth gestured him to come ashore, and when he recognised it would take a while, he sat down on one of the steps.
Beside the clothes lay a shattered whisky bottle which, by all appearances, had been full. From a pocket of the worn trousers, something stood out. It shimmered in the moonlight and attracted his attention.
After assuring himself that Perkovic couldn’t see him, he reached for the small object. Astonished, he pulled out a finely painted portrait which had been coated with a glossy varnish to preserve it – the reason why it glistened in the pale light.
The miniature showed a young man about his own age, of delicate stature with aristocratic features. His eyes were of an intense blue and even on canvas gave a lively impression, even a somewhat impish one. He turned the portrait over and made out beautiful, rounded handwriting.
Don't forget, don't regret, don't stop loving me.
Beneath those words stood interwoven letters. He could hardly decipher them. Was that an L? Perhaps a P beside it? Or was it a C?
He then hastily put the picture back.
Who was the lad? And why did Perkovic carry his portrait with him? Had he also lost something – someone – to the secret society? The idea depressed him in a strange way.
Immediately afterwards he scolded himself for having allowed his thoughts to be diverted even for a few moments. Vrila was sitting in a prison, damn it! That’s what he should be concerned with now and nothing else!
Finally Perkovic was close enough for them to speak with one another. His expression betrayed concern. “What’s happened to make you come looking for me?”
Hyacinth stood and noticed to his chagrin that his legs were once more trembling. “You have to help me. Vrila was arrested.”
“Arrested?” Sergei asked in dismay as he climbed out of the river. Completely naked. It caused Hyacinth to lower his gaze in shame and turn away.
In a mocking tone, though without mirth, Perkovic laughed and reached for his clothes to get dressed. “Why so shy? Is Gavrii still so inhibited he won’t undress even in front of his own husband?”
What was that supposed to mean?
Hyacinth muted his voice to explain: “We broke into Lord Ferdill’s house. For that policeman.”
“Howard, that lousy mutton shunter. And now he’s most certainly out of town so as not to ruin his spotless reputation or attract Hathaway’s attention,” Sergei growled and quickly pulled on his shoes. “I assume you have a plan? ‘Cause I have no idea how to get Gavrii out from this dung heap although I’d be glad to do it.”
“Didn’t you once say, Bartie was a fine gentleman?”
Perkovic narrowed his gaze which appeared to be surprisingly clear and sober – without the dirt on his face, the man was rather handsome. “Yes. He is.” He nodded.
“Then is he well off?” Everything else depended on the answer to that one question. With a rapidly beating heart, he longed for a ‘Yes.’
Once again Perkovic nodded in reply. It afforded Hyacinth immense relief and moved him to take a deep breath.
“Take me to him, Sergei. Right away. This can’t wait.”
*
Waiting in the dark with stoic resignation and shivering with cold, Gavrila stared at the wall where someone had etched morbid images either to immortalise himself or to lend expression to his own insanity.
His head ached because they had slammed it brutally against the hard stone even though he hadn’t offered resistance. He would have massaged his temples to afford himself some relief if his hands weren’t still fettered behind his back by the heavy irons.
The snowfall slowly changed to rain. No white flakes danced outside the grill of the small opening near the ceiling. Now heavy drops of water shot past.
There was frightening stillness around him, allowing the voices in his head to become unbearably loud.
Scenes from the past played out before his eyes, scenes he would have preferred to forget. He saw the beautiful features of his older brother’s face, his alert blue eyes, the dimples in his cheeks which caused furrows through his black, closely trimmed beard. His hair was always cut fashionably short while Gavrila left his long so he could hide behind its strands. His brother had teased him about it but let him do as he pleased.
After they had been orphaned at an early age, Dimitri had taken him in. Although they were only ten years apart, he had been more of an educator than a brother.
The faint memory of his father also turned up in the darkness, and the hatred which the man had bestowed on him now made him tremble. Gavrila hadn’t been of his flesh and blood. He had let him know that each and every day. Also his mother hadn’t been able to look him in the eyes. He didn’t blame her.
He was yanked from his train of thought when the door swung open and Hathaway stood in the room. “Candle,” he demanded gruffly from a guard, who handed him one. “Leave me alone with him.” That command was obeyed.
“What were you looking for in Lord Ferdill’s house?” Hathaway snapped and grimaced dreadfully, the candlelight casting flickering shadows over his face.
“I wanted to rob him. The word is he has valuable objets d’art in his house.”
“Stop playing games and tell me which one of my men is a damn traitor.” His voice was only a hiss, but the cold rage in it could not be ignored.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re not as stupid as you are ugly. Of course, neither are you as smart as you think you are. I’m no id
iot. I know somebody set you on to Ferdill to harm my relationship with him. That nobleman is under my protection.”
“I wasn’t aware of any such thing.” Unruffled, Gavrila shrugged his shoulders and tried to maintain a vacant facial expression. If he were to act suspiciously and cause Howard difficulties, he would come to feel the full measure of the policeman’s wrath. After the cop had already threatened Hyacinth once before, it wasn’t hard to imagine what his revenge would look like. Horror plunged through him like a stab to the chest.
“Don’t take me for a fool, you hideous creature!” the inspector roared then kicked him in a shin so violently that he gasped aloud. “Only two days after we acquired some interesting details on the secret society, you break in at the home of my protégé. Admit it, you wanted to obtain information!”
Gavrila listened attentively, and almost lost control of his flat expression. They couldn’t know anything about Florin Genwood because Perkovic had taken the necklace off of him. Therefore, something else must have happened. That’s why Howard had looked him up. He’d wanted to find out whether Gavrila knew anything that the police didn’t know yet! The bastard was wily, had strung him along and had given up nothing even though he did have something to tell. That damn arsehole…
He gnashed his teeth. Even the detestable chef de police wanted to discover what he knew. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he asserted obstinately.
Hathaway whisked two fingers over his moustache and scrutinised him with hostility. “You know I’m recommending two years for you?”
That caused a shudder down his back, but he merely shrugged his aching shoulders once more.
Something in the other man’s demeanour changed, becoming more contemptuous and spiteful. “Regrettable that you’ll spend two long years in this cell right after you’ve just gotten married. Do you think young Mr Black will visit you? Or will he take your money then leave the city and be long gone when you get out? What do you think? I imagine the boy will be far away when you’re released. Then you’ll be alone again, as lonely as the street mongrel you resemble so much.
A Hyacinth for His Hideousness Page 9
