by Ben Hammott
A particularly large rut the driver failed to avoid bounced Crakett into the air. His head slammed against the door frame and his stomach lurched something awful. He forced the lumpy bile back down his throat and glared at the driver. "Damn you man! At least make an effort to try and avoid the worst of them."
"I'm not sure they ain't all as worst as each other. If you think you can do a better job yer welcome to swap places with me. I'd like nothing more than to relax in there all comfy like for a change. It has to be better than being bounced all over the place on this damn seat what seems to have been designed to extract as much pain and discomfort from my arse as humanly possible."
Sensing the immediate re-emergence of his greasy breakfast, Crakett slouched back in his seat and took a few deep breaths. Bounced from side to side, up and down and every other possible direction, he glanced around the carriage interior, which he now looked upon as his own personal torture chamber. He would be glad when this torturous journey reached its end; he wasn't looking forward to the return trip, perhaps he'd walk. Two bumps in quick succession from opposite sides of the track swayed the coach violently. His breakfast seized its chance to escape, gave a whoop of delight and sped at amazing speed up its host's throat.
The hunchback felt its imminent arrival and knew this time there would be no stopping it. He dived for the open window to set it free. The force of his body slamming against the flimsy door was more than the feeble, worn catch could resist. It flew open taking the passenger with it. With a plume of vomit spaying from his mouth, the hunchback fell to the ground, rolled down a slight incline that suddenly became a lot steeper. Bushes and thorny scrub snatched at him but failed to halt his plummet. That happened when he reached the bottom and his head struck something hard. Dazed, he lay there and gazed up at the blue sky gradually taken from his sight by rolling grey clouds. Rain was coming. He slipped into unconsciousness.
The carriage door, now free of the weight of its unwelcome passenger and propelled by a large bump the recently evicted traveller was lucky to have missed, slammed shut.
The driver felt, more than heard, the sound of the closing door. He glanced back, noticed nothing amiss and returned his gaze upon the approaching railway bridge.
Butler and Furtive watched the carriage shoot out of the tunnel and after a short distance its driver slump to the side. Lurch stepped out from the bushes and let the horses pass.
"Why isn't he stopping it," said Furtive.
"He will. He doesn't want to scare the horses."
When the rear of the carriage drew level, Lurch reached out and grabbed it. He let the speed of the coach drag him along and gradually dug in his heels, adding two fresh ruts to the bumpy track. The carriage slowed before coming to a gentle halt.
Butler and Furtive rushed down the bank and along the track.
Wary of the murderous passenger and uncertain if the chloroform had been as successful at knocking out Crakett as it had the driver, Butler told Lurch to check on the hunchback's condition.
Lurch opened the door, almost pulling it from its hinges, and stuck his large head inside.
The confused look upon his face when he looked at Butler, though not an unusual expression, in this instance caused Butler a little concern. "What is it, Lurch?"
"It's empty."
Butler rushed forward and looked inside. Lurch was right. It was as empty as a fresh grave in a cemetery favoured by body snatchers. Something was wrong, very wrong. He glanced back along the track. He saw nothing. Maybe he wasn't onboard, but if not what was the carriage doing here. Both Ebenezer and Sebastian had their own to take them to the ball tonight, so that could not be the reason. He turned to Lurch. "Bring me the driver."
Lurch reached up and plucked the man from his uncomfortable seat and placed him on the ground beside Butler.
Butler pulled a small bottle of smelling salts from his pocket and told Furtive to hide for a moment. Once Furtive had moved around to the far side of the coach, Butler waved the smelling salts under the driver's nose.
It took the man a few moments to awake. With drowsy eyes he looked at Butler. "Who are you?"
"That is of no importance. Where's your passenger?"
"Mr. Murdersin?"
"Yes! Where is he?"
The man's head tilted back to look up at the carriage door. "He's inside of course. I did give 'im the opportunity to…"
"No he isn't. The carriage is empty."
"That can't be possible; I spoke to the strange fellow shortly before we passed under the bridge. He was feeling a little queer. Green as a toad he was."
Butler stood, told Lurch to watch the driver and moved around the carriage to talk with Furtive.
"So…?" questioned Furtive.
"The driver said Crakett was onboard; he spoke to him shortly before the bridge and he looked a bit sickly. I'm thinking he either jumped out for some reason or fell out."
"Yer reckon he's somewhere back along the track?"
Butler nodded. "We have to decide whether we continue with the plan with a few minor changes, or cancel it?"
"Yer got that ball tonight, which will be another year for it comes around again, and I don't think Sebastian will halt his plans just because yer ain't ready with yours."
Butler remained deep in thought for a few moments. "We'll go ahead. Working for Ebenezer for another year is not something I am willing to endure; it's now or not at all. Now the driver's awake, he can take you to Castle Drooge. Tell him you fell out. Lurch and I will go look for Crakett; he shouldn't be hard to find, and take him to the cottage as planned."
"Sounds good ter me."
Butler followed Furtive around to the driver.
"Look, there he is!" said the driver on spying the hunchback. What happened, yer fall out did yer."
Furtive ignored the man. "Come on, let's get this thing moving. I'm already late." He climbed into the carriage.
Lurch helped the man to his feet.
"He's not the most sociable passenger I ever had," stated the driver, "and probably a lousy tipper knowing my luck. He did look a bit better though, his greenness ain't there now and he sounds a bit different. Chucked his guts up I expect."
Furtive poked his head out of the window. "If you want any tip at all, lousy or otherwise, you better climb aboard and get this damn thing moving."
The driver dobbed his cap to the passenger. "Yes, Sir, climbing aboard now, Sir." He climbed aboard and grabbed the reigns. "You two wanna lift somewhere."
"No they damn well don't," said Furtive.
"Starting the horses now, Sir. Soon 'ave yer at yer destination." He nodded goodbye to the two men watching him and with a swish of the reigns, clucked the horses into motion.
Butler turned to Lurch. "Come big feller, we have a missing hunchback to track down."
Lurch followed Butler along the track and under the bridge.
CASTLE DROOGE
The carriage crossed the drawbridge spanning the foul smelling, stagnant moat, passed under the raised portcullis, through the opening normally blocked by two thick oak gates covered in bands of iron and clattered across the bone-shaking cobbled courtyard of Castle Drooge. The guards posted around the ramparts stared at the carriage as it came to a rattling stop in front of the main door to the inner building.
Flint emerged through the inner castle's main entrance, hurried over to the carriage, opened the door and smiled at its lone passenger. "Welcome to Castle Drooge, Mr. Murdersin."
With an expression of moody disinterest, Furtive stared at the man, but said not a word.
Made nervous by the man's piercing stare and lack of speech, all in the castle were acquainted with the hunchback's reputation with a fruit knife, Flint said, "Mr. Sebastian Drooge is waiting for you in his library, Sir." He stood back and held the door open. When the man failed to disembark, he nervously peered inside. The carriage was empty. Puzzled by the hunchback's sudden disappearance, he turned. A surprised screech escaped from his lips at the unexpected sigh
t of the missing guest standing beside him. Eager to be free of the disturbing man, Flint stepped around him. "Please follow me, Mr. Murdersin." He headed for the door. After a few steps he paused to check the soles of his shoes and seemed surprised to find them lacking the foul substance he expected to discover there.
Furtive cast his gaze around the courtyard. He counted three men, but there might be more not in his view and maybe others posted inside. He stepped through the door and it closed behind him.
Ebenezer was angry. "What do you mean you couldn't find him?"
"Sorry, Sir, I thought I had stated it plainly enough. He wasn't to be found, not there, gone, vanished from the face of the earth…"
"That's enough, Butler. You know how important this is to me. What in hell's name could have happened to him?"
"We did find a faint trail of crushed grass leading to the drop into the quarry, Sir, but I saw no sign of him below. If he has fallen over the edge there is a good chance it resulted in his death; it's a long way down."
"I'd rather know for certain one way or the other, but if he did fall into the quarry, survived the fall and remains there when the sun goes down, Diablo will get him for sure."
Butler grimaced. "A gruesome, horrible death, Sir, and probably quite a bit of pain and suffering involved as well. Not a nice way to meet your maker."
"Don't feel sorry for him. I imagine all those who have died at his hands would have thought their deaths were just as horrid, especially if that blunt fruit knife of his was the cause. I am concerned if he does survive and turns up at the castle, two identical hunchbacks claiming to be the same man are going to cause a bit of a problem, don't you think?"
"I am afraid it is a chance we have no choice but to risk, Sir. Time constraints prevent us from doing anything about it. If we had more men like I suggested…"
"Oh! So it's my fault your perfect plan is falling apart at the seams, is it?"
"I did say there might be complications we couldn't foresee."
"Complications! Damn it, Butler, your whole plan revolves around Furtive being accepted by my brother as the real Crakett Murdersin, something that will fail miserably if the real Crakett turns up."
"Well, Sir, it's too late to back out now, Furtive's already inside Sebastian's castle. I suggest you trot off to the ball and leave me to worry about things here. There is still a very good chance Furtive will find the painting and remove himself from the castle before the real Crakett, if he's not dead, knocks on the door."
"Let's hope you're right, Butler. I've waited a long time to get one over on my brother and find Jacobus's inheritance. There have been too many disappointments and to face another when I feel we are so close might be the end of me."
"No need for such talk, Sir. You may look as weak as a politician's resolve when a bribe is on offer, but you have the heart of an ox and the stamina of a racing horse. Come, Sir, your carriage is waiting outside. If you are ready, I'll drive you to Havasham Hall."
Ebenezer took one last look in the mirror. The black jacket and trousers, white shirt and white bow tie, which he only wore for the ball, seemed to sag more on his thin frame every year. He stood as straight as his crooked back would allow, placed the top hat on his head, gripped the ebony cane in his right hand and turned to look at his man servant. "Yes, I'm ready as I'll ever be."
"You actually look quite dashing in your formal attire, Sir. Maybe a lady will take a fancy to you tonight and you to her. It would be pleasant company in your old age if you could convince her to marry you."
Ebenezer perked up. "You really think so?"
"Yes, Sir, I do. If I was a single female of about your age, so close to the grave, I'd snatch you up real quick."
"Thank you, Butler. I think that's one of the nicest things anyone has said to me that did not involve a profitable cash transaction."
"Stop it, Sir, or you'll bring a tear to my eye." Butler smiled warmly at his employer, turned to one side and crooked his arm. "Sir, may I please have the honour of escorting you to your carriage?"
"Yes, Butler, you may." Ebenezer linked his skeletal arm through Butler's.
Butler caught a whiff of something. "New cologne, Sir?"
"No, an old one I used to splash on in my younger days. It's called Stallion."
"Horses certainly sprang to mind when it assaulted my nose, Sir."
Arm in arm, they left the room.
Furtive, already impressed by the castle's grand and foreboding exterior, was even more so with its interior. Though he had expected it to be cold, dank and musty like his brother's house, it wasn't. The stone walls of the passage he currently passed through were adorned with tapestries and paintings. Vases and figurines stood atop small tables positioned at intervals― the man obviously employed no one as clumsy as Lurch or they would be piles of broken china and splintered wood.
Flint paused at a large, arched, oak door, knocked, opened it and announced his guest. "Sir, Mr. Murdersin is here to see you."
He saw a puzzled expression form on his employer's face and his peering look through the opening. Flint turned to see no sign of the hunchback. He huffed. "I wish he'd stop doing that."
"You have an impressive place here, Sebastian."
Both heads turned toward the voice. Their guest sat in a relaxed manner in one of the large armchairs. In one hand a glass of whiskey and in the other a fat cigar."
Flint was stunned. "But…how…"
Sebastian was impressed and smiled. "That will be all, Flint."
"Yes, Sir." Flint cast a nervous glance at the hunchback, backed out of the room and closed the door.
"That was impressive, Mr. Murdersin," said Sebastian admirably, "and without making a sound. It confirms what I already knew; you are the right man for the job."
Furtive shrugged casually. "It is a skill that has come in handy a few times."
Sebastian headed toward the whisky decanter to pour himself a drink, but paused when his guest spoke.
"I took the liberty of pouring you one before I sat down." His cigar pointed at the glass. "It's on the table there."
Sebastian glanced at the drink and smiled. "Amazing! Is it possible you could teach me that trick?"
"Trick!" Furtive slammed his glass on the low table and rose to his feet. "A trick! Well, Sir, if that is what you think I am, a simple theater magician, I see my talents are not required here. I will remove myself from your castle forthwith."
"No, please don't, Mr. Murdersin. I am sorry, I meant no offence. Of course it's not a trick, it is a great skill. You must understand Mr. Murdersin; people like me rarely witness talents like those you have so expertly displayed. All we have to compare them to is fantastical magic tricks. Please, Sir, forgive me?"
Furtive, content he had put the man on the defensive, the reason for his feigned outburst, returned the glass to his hand and resumed his seat. "I accept your apology, Sebastian, and you must forgive me also. Perhaps I reacted a little harshly. I blame that long uncomfortable carriage ride from the train station. Traveling along some of those roads is a living hell."
"No, I assure you there is nothing to forgive, it was my mistake." Sebastian sat down in an opposing arm chair and took a large gulp of whisky.
Furtive gave a causal wave of his hand to dismiss the matter. "It is already forgotten."
Sebastian tried his hardest not to stare at the wad of hot cigar ash that had fallen on to the chair's arm. The scorch mark it would leave in the one hundred year old fabric would not be forgotten so easily.
Furtive took another sip of his drink and smacked his lips in appreciation. "So, Sebastian, what is the full nature of the job you require of me."
Unable to drag his eyes away from the lengthening protrusion of cigar ash forming as his guest took a long drag, Sebastian explained. "It's a protection job. My brother who lives in yonder manor…"
"…must be the building I noticed from the road; dreary looking place in desperate need of maintenance."
Sebastian nodde
d, wondering how the finger length of ash on his guest's cigar was managing to sustain its grip. "Yes, that would be it." He casually leaned forward and pushed the cut crystal ashtray toward the hunchback. "If you run out of room for your ash on the chair's arm, please, feel free to use the ashtray."
Furtive smiled, glanced at his cigar and then at the ashtray. A finger flicked the ash into the air.
Sebastian glanced at the airborne ash, the ashtray and his expensive hand-woven Turkish rug between them. It was almost more than Sebastian could do to prevent himself from diving for it. Anxiously his eyes followed the ash arc through the air and when above the ashtray collapsed into a snowfall of gray flecks that drifted into the vessel designed to catch them.
Before he knew that he was doing it, Sebastian leapt to his feet and began clapping. "Bravo!" When he realized he was, his cheeks blushed. He abruptly stopped and resumed his seat. He composed himself and continued. "As I was saying, my brother and I each own one painting from a pair and I am very eager to bring them back together. I need his half, which I plan to steal tonight, and he will, I believe, attempt to steal mine. It is this painting of mine I want you to protect to ensure he doesn't get his grubby, miserly hands on it."
"A simple task of which I can guarantee a satisfactory result. I sense your motivation for having the two reunited is not that normally inspired by an art collector's temperament. I am curious, what is the significance of the two paintings to drive your obvious determination to steal your brother's?"
"Each painting contains a set of clues leading to a family keepsake, a worthless family heirloom, a knick-knack, nothing more and certainly something of no financial importance, but something we both desire nevertheless. Only when the two paintings are together are the clues decipherable, something we both only realized a couple of years ago. Since that time we have played a sort of game where we each attempt to steal the other's painting. I fear the winning has now become more important than the reward."
