Death and the Arrow (8 page)

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 there.

“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.

“Why do you follow me?” asked the man in an accent Tom had never heard before.

“I’m not. I mean, I . . . I . . . I was searching for my friend’s murderer,” said Tom bravely.

“And you thought I was that man?”

“I don’t know,” said Tom, still trying to get a proper look at the stranger. “We did not know who we were looking for. But in any case, now I know who it was who killed my friend.”

“Shepton?” Tom could hear the hatred in the man’s voice.

“You know him?”

“Yes, I know that devil. I have been searching for him this very night,” said the man. “And this friend he killed? This friend was Will Piggot, I think.”

“You knew Will?” exclaimed Tom.

“I did know him. Was proud to know him. Such skill in one so young. I only caught him picking my pocket by accident. I never saw such swiftness of hand, such quick wits. What a hunter he would have made. I watched him work the crowd for an hour before I spoke to him.”

“It was you who paid him to put the Death and the Arrow cards in those men’s pockets! It’s your fault he’s dead!” shouted Tom.

There was no reply. Tom feared for his life again and wished he had held his tongue.

“Yes,” said the man at last. “I am to blame, as sure as if I had strangled him myself, and I’m sorry for it. It gives me another sorrow in a life of sorrows, and another reason to seek Shepton’s death. Now there are only two of them left. He and the one called Fisher. They are the last.”

“No,” said Tom. “Fisher is dead.” He told him about the attempt on his life and of Fisher’s fall to his death.

The man crouched down and began to untie the ropes from around Tom’s ankles. Tom could still not see his face beneath the brim of his hat. When his feet were free, he momentarily considered kicking out at his captor, but his hands were still tied, and who knew if anyone would ever find him?

Tom let his legs drop on either side of the beam, welcoming the chance to move and shake off some of the damp chill of the night. His captor stooped over him, holding a huge knife, and Tom cried out in fear of his life; however, the knife was used to cut not Tom’s throat but the rope holding him to a metal bracket behind his head. He was grateful to be released, but instantly felt even more aware of the drop below.

“I have food. Eat.”

The man tossed a leather bag into Tom’s lap. It was decorated in a similar way to the beaded shoes. Again Tom tried to remember where he had seen that decoration before. He reached inside the bag and found a small loaf of bread and a hunk of cheese. He took hearty bites out of both.

Meanwhile, his captor took off his hat and wig, tucking them into the space between wall and rafter by Tom’s head. He then dropped down to sit astride the beam opposite him. Tom gasped in amazement.

Most men in London shaved their heads and stuck their wigs to their scalps. But this man had a ridge of hair running from the top of his head to the nape of his neck, tied at the back with a single black feather. But more, much more extraordinary than this, his face and neck were decorated with strange patterns not unlike those on his shoes. Silver triangles hung from his ear-lobes. The sergeant’s talk of demons flooded back into Tom’s mind.

“Wh-wh-what are you?”

“I am Tonsahoten.”