Nothing more threatening awaited here than some old boxes and broken furniture. I threaded a path through them, holding the candle high, squinting ineffectually against the gloom, until I found what seemed to be the opposite wall. Seemed. I knew it to be false.
It had been built out from the actual wall as a carefully constructed duplicate, even down to the coloring of the stones and mortar. There was no opening of any kind; she'd not found one to be necessary. To enter, she had but to vanish and pass through as I was now doing.
Within was a silence so complete that I had to fight to retain solidity. My mind had instantly cast itself back to the hideous moments when I'd first awakened to this life and realized I was in a coffin and buried. There was even a strong smell of damp earth here the same as there had been then. They'd put me in my best Sunday clothes, drawn the shroud up past my head and tied it off, then nailed me into a box, and lowered it into the weeping ground.
A sudden hard sob rose up, choking me.
I'd missed the service that they'd said, missed the hymns, missed the prayers, the tears, the hollow impact as the first clods were shoveled into the grave. Asleep. I'd been oblivious in the sleep of the dead until the sun was gone and consciousness returned.
There had been nothing to hear, nothing but my own screams.
My hand began to shake in remembrance of that damnable terror.
I wanted out, I had to get out.
Nothing to see. I'd have sold my soul for even this tiny flame.
And then it began to fade, to diminish.
No...
Getting smaller... dying.
No... If it went out now I might never return later, not with this fresh fear close atop the old ones.
I made myself watch the little drop of fire in my hand as though I could will it back to strength again.
And most remarkably, it did grow brighter.
Only then did I understand it was not the candle but myself that had faded. Trying to escape from a memory. From a shadow alive only in my mind. A fool's occupation, I impatiently thought.
Not a fool. Only a frightened man, with a perfectly reasonable fear.
So face it, laddie. I could almost hear Father's comforting voice in my head, gentle and at the same time so practical and firm.
Would that the laugh I conjured up from within had some of his tone, but I settled for the thin noise that did come out. It struck flat against the close walls of this chamber, but the fear holding me frozen retreated somewhat. Not far, but far enough.
Able to look around now, I was well aware that no one else other than Nora had been here since the workmen had sealed up the cracks. My shoes scraped over dust that had last been disturbed by her passage. There lay the marks of her own slippers and long swirls where her skirts had brushed the floor.
They led to a sizable rectangular shape rising from the floor; like the remaining furnishings above, it was also protected by a dust sheet. I flipped back a portion of it, revealing a plain oaken construction some two feet high and wide and long enough to serve as a bed.
Lifting the lid, I found that the interior of the box was filled right to the top with what appeared to be small pillows made of thick canvas. They were actually bags hauntingly like those I'd had made, and like mine, were heavy with a quantity of earth. Her home earth. This was where she rested during the day. Not inside, of course, as there was no room, but above on the closed lid, thus sparing her clothing from the sittings from the bags.
Now I released a sigh, thanking heaven for this happy discovery. As precious and necessary as it was to my daytime rest, I could expect her need for this portion of the grave to be identical to mine. Certainly she would have taken some with her to wherever she now lived, but if she never intended to return to this house, she'd have removed this cache along with the rest of her things.
Unless something had happened to her.
Her goods could have been carried off and sold and this box left behind because no one knew about it. Or if anyone did, they'd placed no value on it, not bothering to knock down the wall to...
Stop it. Nora was all right. Until and unless I heard anything different, she was all right.
God, but she was the most cautious soul I'd ever met. Had she not been able to safely juggle the attentions of a dozen or more of her courtiers, taking care that none of them should harm her or each other? There had been the one exception with Tony Warburton, but she'd survived his madness well enough. With my own rough experiences as a guide, I knew it would be difficult, if not impossible, for her to come to permanent physical harm. Sunlight was our only real enemy and, of course, fire, but this chamber was ample proof of the measures she'd taken to ensure her safety should such a calamity occur. With its stone walls and a strong roof made of slate, this sanctuary was as fireproof as a... a tomb.
Better not to dwell on that point, Johnny Boy, I thought with a shiver.
I replaced the lid and pulled the dust sheet back. A note, then, was necessary. I'd prepared one against this possibility and could leave it here where she was sure to find it... no... perhaps not. Better she directly learn from me the results of our liaison than to infer it by my invasion of this most private place. I'd leave it upstairs, then.
The outside air, for all its stench of coal smoke and night soil, seemed sweet and fresh after my exploration of Nora's empty house. The wind was not too bad, though it whipped my cloak around a bit on some of the street corners. It had a wet bite, promising rain, but not cold enough for sleet. The sky was still clouded over, but very bright to my eyes, for the most part casting a diffuse and shadowless illumination over the city. Those areas still held fast by the darkness I avoided, having already had a glut of it.
Though I'd gotten past my adverse reaction to the sealed room, I was yet a little shaken. The strength of it surprised me, but what else might I have expected? Perhaps this was a fear I needed to face down the same as I'd done at the Captain's Kettle; however, there was absolutely no desire lurking in me to attend to it in the near future, if ever. For the present, I had other things to think about, with finding Nora being the most pressing.
Since most of her near neighbors appeared to have retired for the night, I could not impose myself upon them to ask questions. That would have to wait until early evening tomorrow. Oliver might have the names of some of them or even know them; he had a very wide circle of friends. My chief hope was that none of this would be necessary. If Oliver had located Nora since his last letter, then all would be well. And if not, then I had at least one other person I could consult, though that would be attempted only with the greatest reluctance.
Again, nothing could be done until the morrow. Well, so be it, but what to do until then?
As ever in these early morning hours, I had much time for thought and little choice for anything else. I wanted conversation, but could hardly be so rude as to inflict my restlessness upon Elizabeth or Jericho. The best entertainment I could expect back at the inn was either to pass the time with some sleepy porter or delve into the stack of books I'd brought along for the voyage.
All two months' worth.
I'd have to widen my own circle of acquaintance in this city unless I wanted to spend the greater part of my life reading. Not that the prospect of a good book was so awful- I was quite looking forward to lengthy expeditions at the many booksellers on Paternoster Row and adding to my collection-but the printed word isn't always the best substitute for cheerful companionship.
My current choices for distraction were small. Winter weather would have closed Vauxhall for the season; I wasn't sure about Ranelagh. It did have that magnificent rotunda with the huge fireplace in the center for the comfort of its patrons. But it could only be reached by a ferry ride across the Thames, and I'd had a surfeit of water travel. Other, lesser gardens remained on this side, but they wouldn't be the same without Nora, and it was so very late now.
Perhaps I could go to Covent Garden. No one slept there at night; they had better things to do i
n their beds. I felt no carnal stirrings right now, but that might change fast enough if the lady was sufficiently alluring. She'd also be much more expensive than sweet Molly Audy. It was only to be expected in so great a city, though I had coin enough and time. To Covent Garden, then, for should pleasing company not be available, then I could at least find amusement observing the antics of others.
Quickening my steps, I headed with certainty in the right direction. Four years may have passed since my last visit, but there are some things one's memory never gives up to time. On many, many occasions Oliver and I had gone there for all manner of entertainments, sometimes trying the theater or more often offering our admiration to any ladies willing to accept it. My particular favorite had been arranging watery trysts at the Turkish baths, though Oliver always maintained that I was running a great risk to my health with such overly frequent bathing. He blamed my recklessness on the rustic influence of the wild lands where I'd been raised. I blamed my own inner preferences.
Before I'd quite gone half a mile toward my goal, I was stopped short by a commotion that literally landed at my feet. About to pass by the windows of a busy tavern, I was forced to jump back on my heels to avoid a large heavy object as it came hurling through one of those windows.
The object proved to be a half-conscious waiter, and the unfortunate man was bleeding from several cuts. The bloodsmell mixed with wine rolled up at me along with his pitiful groans. From inside the tavern came cries of dismay and outrage and drunken laughter, very loud.
A slurred voice bawled out, "Ha, landlord, put him on the reckoning, there's a good chap."
The jest was followed by more laughter. The man at my feet, his forehead and hands gashed, moaned and cursed. Heads appeared in the remains of the window and jeered at him for being a bloody fool. This witticism inspired more drunken hilarity, and one of them threw out the remains in his tankard, splashing both the injured man and myself.
"Damned louts!" I yelled.
"And you're a thrice damned foreigner," came the return, its originator having taken exception to my simpler clothes and lack of a wig.
Two people cautiously emerged from the door of the tavern, hurried toward the fallen waiter, and lifted him up and away. For their trouble, they were pelted with more drink and several tankards, the uproar within growing each time someone struck true. Their targets hastily removed themselves, leaving me in command of the field. Not unexpectedly, I became the next target of abuse. A tankard was launched at me, but I foiled the attack by catching it as easily as I'd caught Elizabeth's seedcake hours before. Unable to resist the temptation, I returned the missile with as much force as was in my power, which was considerable, if I could judge from the resulting crash and yelp.
This only incensed the aggressors, and before I could also remove myself from the area, several men came boiling through the window. Too many, I thought, with vast alarm. I backed away from them, but several more rushed from the tavern door and cut off my escape. But a second passed and they had me encircled, their swords out and leveled.
"Here's a pretty lad who doesn't know his manners. What say you that we give him the favor of a sweat?" Thus spoke their leader, or so I assumed him to be by his size and manner with the others.
His suggestion was met with sniggering approval.
Though I'd never met them before, I knew who they were, having wisely avoided contact with their ilk on my previous visits to the capital. They were called "Mohocks," perhaps after the Indian tribe, and I'd have preferred the company of the latter over these particular savages. They were well dressed as any of the gentry and quite probably were of that class. Their chief form of pleasure came from terrorizing the helpless citizenry with cruel bullying that ranged from passing water in public to throwing acid.
To think I'd been worried about mere footpads. At least they murdered and maimed for a reason; these beauties did it for the sake of the dirty mischief itself.
The assault planned for me identified them as devotees of "the sweat," the purpose being to raise a warm one on their victim. If I was so rude as to present my back to any of them, I would find my rump pierced by that person's sword. Naturally, I'd be forced to jump around, allowing whoever was behind me at any given moment an opportunity to stab in turn, continuing the grim frolic.
I couldn't expect help from the watch; they were often the frightened victims of the Mohocks themselves, nor would the other patrons of the tavern dare interfere. Being skilled in its use, I could draw my own sword for defense, but they were eight to my one. Even the great Cyrano might hesitate at such odds. I'd left my Dublin revolver at the inn, else I might have been able to account for six of the worst.
All this flashed through my brain so quickly I hardly noticed its passage. As the hooting fools closed in to begin their sport, I took the one excellent advantage left to me and vanished.
My sight was nonexistent and my hearing was grossly impaired, but not so much as to deny me the pleasure of eavesdropping on their cries of shock and fear at this startling turn. I sensed their bodies falling back in confusion as they tried to sort out what had happened. They were very drunk, though, which added to my entertainment. One of them suggested in awestruck tones the possibility of a ghost and got only derision for his thought. I attached myself to the one who laughed the loudest.
Elizabeth had long ago informed me that when assuming this state, I produced an area of intense cold in the place where my body had been. By draping an arm-or what should have been an arm-around this fellow in a mock-friendly fashion, I was soon rewarded by his unhappy response, which was a fit of violent shivering. He complained to indifferent ears about the cold, then hurried off. I clung fast until I realized he was returning to the warmth of the tavern, then abandoned him to seek out another to bedevil.
The remaining men were now searching the area, having muzzily concluded that I'd slipped away by means of some conjuring trick. I picked another man at random and followed until he was well separated from the group. Resuming solidity, I tapped him hard upon the shoulder to gain his attention. He spun, roaring out a cry to his friends as soon as he saw me. His sword was up, but I was faster and put the broad handle of my cane to good use by shoving it into his belly. His foul breath washed into my face. He doubled over, then dropped into whatever filth happened to be lying in the street. I hoped it to be of an exceptionally noxious variety.
I also was not there when his friends came stumbling over.
They had much speculation as to how he'd come to be in such a condition, and found it amusing. None seemed to have any sympathy for their comrade's plight, only disgust that he'd let himself be so used. The big leader was for further search, his frustration growing in proportion to the time consumed trying to find me. He became the next one upon whom I lavished my attention.
As with the first, I gave him good cause to start shaking and moaning as though with an ague. Instead of seeking shelter in the tavern, he stubbornly continued to look, filling the street with a string of curses that would give offense to a sailor. I'm no stranger to profane speech, but I had my limits. When I judged him to be well enough separated from the rest, I took solid form again. Though his clothes proclaimed him a gentleman, I had cause to disagree with the possibility and acted accordingly. Without a thought for being fair or unfair, I struck across the backs of his knees with my cane and, while he was down, followed with another sturdy blow to his sword arm.
His bellow of rage was enough to rattle windows in the next street. He dropped his sword, of course. I'd gotten him hard in the thick meat halfway between the shoulder and elbow. He lunged at me with his other arm, but I swatted that away and danced out of his reach, causing him to fall flat on his face. Perhaps I should not have been laughing, as it only increased his fury, but I couldn't help myself. Mud and worse now stained his finery, an excellent return for that splash of beer I'd gotten.
Someone suddenly laid hands upon me from behind, dragging me backward and off balance. I flailed about with
my stick, connected sharply once, then had to fight to keep hold of it. The half dozen remaining men were getting in one another's way but still managing to provide me with a difficult time. I vaguely felt some blows landing on my body, and though there was no real pain, it took damned few to send me back to the safety of an incorporeal state.
If my initial disappearance surprised them, this latest act left them first dumbfounded, then panicked. Those who had been holding me now yelled and reeled into others. The effect was like that of the rings spreading out from a stone dropped in a pond; all they wanted was to remove themselves from where I'd been in the center.
Their leader cursed them for cowardly blockheads, but they were having none of it, calling for a return to the tavern with thin, high voices.
That seemed a good scheme to me as well. One more nudge would do it, I thought.
Rising over and behind the leader some three or four yards above the street, I willed myself to become more and more solid. I could just see them as gray figures against a gray world. As they assumed greater clarity, so did I, until I had to halt my progress or drop from my own weight. As it was, I was substantial enough to be firmly affected by the wind and had to fight to hold my place, instinctively waving my arms like a swimmer.
P N Elrod - Barrett 3 - Death Masque Page 10
