by Ben Hammott
He snatched Sebastian's painting from the desk and hoping it was more pleasurable to look at than the previous hell spawned image, he nervously unrolled it. Though its dark painted details were not in the least offensive, except perhaps to any artist of merit, the image meant nothing to him and no clues jumped out. He rolled it up and carefully slid it into his hump. With a voice so full of smugness it dripped onto the floor, Furtive said, "Step one completed," he then added a smug smile to reinforce his abundance of smugness.
His next problem would not be so easily resolved.
Even if he managed to open the secret wall door, how was he going to pass through the guard filled corridor? Electing to handle one problem at a time, he picked up Grave Filler, crossed the room, grabbed a candle from a candelabra as he passed and climbed the stairs.
By means of the candlelight Furtive examined every inch of the stone walls at the top of the steps. It took his experienced eyes only a few seconds to spot the operating mechanism to open the secret wall door. He pressed his foot against the block near the floor. Clanking and rumbling accompanied the door swinging open. He slipped through and crossed to the door. It was a certainty those in the corridor would have heard the loud rumble and would now be staring at the opposite side of this door. Confident the only key to unlock it was securely secreted in one of Sebastian pockets, he did not waste time knocking but pulled out his lock picking tools and crouched. A few seconds later the lock gave in to his skilled manipulations. He stood, pocketed the lock-picks and opened the door.
THE THIRD HUNCHBACK
The guard staring at Drooge Manor yawned, stamped his feet in an effort to force some warmer blood into his frozen toes and watched the snowflakes drift to the ground. Though the snow was light, he doubted it would remain so and soon heavy snowfall would arrive. At least then he would be able to build a snowman to pass the time. Cold and bored he wished something would happen to provide him with some excitement.
For the first time in the man's life, his fickle Fairy Godmother listened to her charge and with a sly smirk upon her lips, granted his wish.
It began with a tap on his shoulder. The man turned and staggered two steps back in astonishment. "Why, it's you! Mr. Murdersin." The nervous edge to the man's voice was impossible to miss.
"Yes, it's me."
The guard's hand shot out. "I'm a great fan of your work, Mr. Murdersin, that episode with the fruit knife, legendary."
Crakett glanced at the man's hand. "An enthusiastic admirer you may be, but I see your respect lacks any similar passion. Wasn't a certain finger on that hand a few moments ago shoved so far up your nose it was prodding your eyeball? No, don't try to deny it; evidence of said enthusiastic probing still remains firmly attached to the guilty digit."
The guard glanced at the offending finger, retracted the arm and swapped it for his other. "Sorry, Mr. Murdersin, I meant no disrespect, but I assure you no finger of this hand has been anywhere near my nasal cavities."
Crakett glanced at the offered hand before returning his gaze to the man's fearful expression. "And still the disrespect continues. Wasn't that hand a few moments ago stuck down the back of your pants scratching at something so vigorously I must declare its either part of your body you are trying to remove or something so firmly attached you are wasting your time trying to dislodge it."
The guard whimpered and hid both hands behind his back. "You're going to kill me, aren't you?"
Crakett nodded casually. "Yes, I am."
Another whimper. "Will it be quick?"
Crakett shook his head. "I wouldn't think so."
"Will there be pain?"
"Oh, yes, lots."
The man began to sob.
"Oh, stop that."
"I'll try, Mr. Murdersin, I really will, but it's hard with the thought of my painful death only a few seconds away."
Crakett stared at the man. "Look, you've caught me in a good mood tonight."
Grasping desperately at the hope the hunchback's words invoked, the guard stopped sobbing. "I have?"
"I think so, although that could change at any moment if you don't do exactly as I ask."
"I promise I will, Mr. Murdersin."
"What's your name?"
"Buckley, Sir, Brian Buckley is my name. So you're really not going to kill me?"
Crakett shrugged. "I might not."
So grateful was the man, he fell to his knees. His hands reached out to grasp one of Crakett's to show his appreciation, but froze when he felt the small fruit knife pressed against his throat."
"If any part of your filthy body makes contact with any part of me, including my clothes, this knife will slit you from navel to forehead."
Buckley whimpered and snatched his hands away. His eyes tried to look at the knife blocked from his view by his pointed chin. "Is that the fruit knife, Mr. Murdersin?"
Crakett removed it from the man's throat and glanced at it. "It is."
"What an honour it is, Sir, to be almost gruesomely murdered by the fruit knife. Did you draw blood, Sir, please, tell me there is blood." Buckley tilted his head back so Crakett could get a better look at his neck.
Dragging his gaze from the view up the man's hairy nostrils, Crakett glanced at his grimy neck. "Yes, there's a little blood."
Oh, Sir, how can I ever thank you, the lads are going to be soooooo jealous. I hope it never heals."
Crakett sighed.
The happy man climbed to his feet. "I thought you were working at the castle, Mr. Murdersin?"
"You will find it hard to believe, but I actually am. I am there and I am here."
Buckley felt the urgent need to scratch his head and did that very thing. Though confused by the cigarette ash he found there, he had a more immediate problem to occupy his thoughts. "You're right, Sir, I don't understand. I was told you would be staying at the castle all night and if I see anything strange to report in."
Crakett glared at the man. "You think I'm strange?"
"No, Sir, not at all, I swear. I'm making a right mess of this, aren't I? I thought if I ever had the pleasure to meet you it would be something real special, a moment to remember fondly until the day I die."
"It could be a short lived enjoyment if you carry on as you are."
"I know, Sir, it's just that I get nervous like. I wish we could start again and forget this dismal embarrassing episode ever occurred."
"A thought that appealed to your parents more than once I should think. Okay, Buckley, here's what we'll do. I want you to go back to the road and keep a watch out for anyone who looks exactly like me coming from the direction of Castle Drooge."
"I'm not sure I understand, Mr. Murdersin. Surely if I see someone who looks exactly like you, it will be you."
"Look, it doesn't matter if you understand or not, you just have to do exactly what I tell you."
"Well…okay. Let's say I see you coming from Castle Drooge, what do I do next?"
"You fire your pistol."
"What, at you!"
"No, Buckley, not at me, because it won't me, just fire it in the air to alert me this imposter is coming. Can you do that or shall I kill you and find someone who can?"
"No Sir, I'm your man. I'm really grateful fer the opportunity to be working with you, Sir. I won't let you down."
"Make sure you don't because you know what will happen if you do."
"Indeed I do, Sir. You'll rip me open with yer famous fruit knife and let me just say this Sir, if you do kill me, I can't think of a better way to die than by your hand and with your legendary fruit knife."
"Okay, Buckley, now off you go."
"Yes, Sir, of course, Sir."
Crakett watched Buckley go and then headed toward the house.
Butler and Lurch had just finished checking every room in the house, but even though Butler sensed something was wrong, they found nothing amiss and no sign of an intruder. They returned to the study.
"I don't like it, Lurch."
"I know, Sir, you alread
y said so."
"No, not just the door bell ringing mysteriously, something is afoot."
"Twelve inches is a foot, Sir."
Butler sighed. "Yes it is, well done, Lurch."
Lurch, pleased by the rareness of being correct, pushed his luck. "If the rumors are true, another thing which is twelve inches is Mr. Drooge's…"
"That's enough, Lurch!" Butler had still been unable to expunge from his mind the image of the six inches he had glimpsed earlier. "And it's Butler, not Sir."
"Yes, Sir, I remember you saying."
"I'm going to take a walk around outside. You stay here and guard this room. Don't let anyone other than me enter, understood?"
"Yes, Sir. Guard this room and let no one except you enter."
"Good, I'll return shortly." Butler headed for the door, but paused when Lurch asked a question.
"What about Furtive, Sir. Can I let him in?"
"No, Lurch, no one except for me."
"Okay, Sir, got it."
Butler took two more steps before he was halted by another question.
"What about Mr. Drooge, Sir, surely I can let him in?"
"No, Lurch, you can't. It may be an imposter who just looks like him. Let no one in. Not the butcher, the baker, the postman or even God himself if he knocks on that door. Let NO ONE through that door. Understand?"
"Oh, yes, Sir, your instructions could not be clearer if you wrote them on a piece of paper and sort of left it on the table there so I could glance at it every now and again."
Butler lowered his head in dismay. "Shall I write it down for you?"
Lurch nodded. "That might be best, Mr. Butler."
Butler grabbed paper and pen from Ebenezer's desk and wrote his instructions down and placed it on the table so Lurch could read it. "Is all clear now?"
Lurch glanced at the paper and read it aloud. "Positivity under no circumstances let anyone through the door. Okay, Sir, got it for certain now."
"Good." Butler headed to the door and let out an exasperated breath when Lurch spoke again.
"You needn't worry, Sir, no one will get through that door, not even you, I can assure you of that."
"No, Lurch, you can let me in, but no one else."
Lurch looked at the paper and read it through. "Sorry, Sir, my explicate instructions are to let no one in."
Butler returned to the note, added a few words and held it up so Lurch could read it. "What does it say now?"
"Absolutely under no circumstances let anyone through the door EXCEPT FOR BUTLER. Couldn't be plainer Sir, you should have wrote that before and then there would not have been the recent misunderstanding."
"Yes, Lurch, as usual it's entirely my fault." For the fourth time Butler tried to leave the room.
"What about Ebenezer's special guest? You know, the pretty lady that gives him his special massage once a week. I'm sure he wouldn't mind her coming in, seeing how happy he always is after her visits."
"Gaaahhh! NO LURCH. NO ONE EXCEPT ME IS TO COME THROUGH THE DOOR UNTIL I RETURN!"
"There is no need to shout, Sir, my hearing is excellent."
Butler turned to leave but paused with his foot mid-step.
"What if someone comes through the window, Sir, is that okay?"
Butler's frustrated scream echoed through the house. He slammed the door on his way out.
Lurch stared at the door. "Sir…?"
Furtive stared at the metal bars of the gate barring his way and at the eight men on the other side staring back at him. His hand reached out to test the gate's strength. It was as solid as it looked. "Now, that's a surprise."
"Mr. Drooge said it might be," commented Flint, the man nearest the gate. "Okay, men, attack position!"
A flurry of activity ended with the guards in various positions of defense. The two at the front lay on the ground, the two behind knelt, the two behind crouched and the two at the back stood until every weapon they held had a clear shot of Furtive.
"Impressive," Furtive said.
Flint nodded his delight with Furtive's praise. "Load weapons!"
A series of metallic clacks spread down the corridor until a crunch of metal and a curse spoilt the effect.
"Damn this bloody piece of crap, it's jammed again."
Flint sighed and turned his head. "Perhaps if you cleaned it once in a while it will function as it's supposed to."
"Yeah, my fault that's what it is. Anyone got some oil?"
"Rub it on Jekyll's head, his hair is greasier than one of Molly's fried breakfasts," said someone.
"Oy, don't bring me into this," said Jekyll. "My gun's working fine."
"What's that stench, there's a right smelly stink coming from somewhere," said one of the men near the front.
"I think someone's trod in something," said another.
"I have some oil," called out Furtive. "Pass it forward."
The jammed weapon started on its journey.
"Sorry about this, Mr. Murdersin," Flint apologized. "There's always one rotten apple to spoil the barrel!"
"Oy, I can hear yer you know."
"Think nothing of it…Flint, isn't it?" said Furtive.
"That's correct, Sir. Flint Stone." He reached out a hand which Furtive had to bend to grasp as the man was still on the floor. "It's an honour to make your acquaintance again, Mr. Murdersin."
When the weapon was passed through the bars, Furtive fished in a pocket and after a brief scramble pulled out a small flask of oil. He set to lubricating the pistol's moving parts. "That was an impressive move your men did just now, Flint, did you train them?"
"Thank you for your compliment, Sir, but though I do keep them in shape, I cannot take the praise for their training, that was done by another, Major Moriarty Holmes.
Furtive raised his eyebrows in surprise, halted his administrations upon the pistol's metal parts and looked at Flint. "That is even more impressive. Moriarty is said to be the best in the business."
"That he is, Sir, that he is. Mr. Sebastian spared no expense."
"Yes, something that is becoming very clear," he mumbled. Furtive pulled a rag from a pocket and began cleaning the inner workings of the weapon. "I heard a story about Major Moriarty some time ago…?"
"…You did, Sir, I don't suppose you'd mind sharing it with me and the lads. It's a boring job this and it would really brighten up our evening."
Furtive glanced at the expectant faces and shrugged. "Why not? Tell me, before I start, does he have a small knick out of his right ear lobe?"
Flint nodded enthusiastically. "That he does, Sir."
"Good, that adds credence that the tale is true. I believe it took place about ten years ago. Major Moriarty was on a mission in the Peruvian jungle to seek out an ancient artefact said to give the one who possessed it a great power."
"What sort of power, Sir?" asked Flint.
"Please, no interruptions."
"Sorry, Sir, it won't happen again."
"Three months Moriarty spent tracking down the lost city of Hellicum, an ancient Aztec city long abandoned by its people. Though overgrown with vegetation, trees and creepers, its details were just discernible. Using a machete to hack a path to its centre, Moriarty arrived at the building he sought, the Demon Temple of the Aztec priest, Skelemordor. He climbed the hundreds of steep steps slick with moisture and rotting vegetation leading up the face of the stone pyramid; a misplaced foot would have sent him hurtling to the ground and his death. After a laborious climb he reached the top. Slightly out of breath, Moriarty paused to survey the pyramid's peak. An altar, still stained from the thousands of human sacrifices Skelemordor had long ago presented to the Aztec's evil, blood thirsty demon gods, held no interest to the first human to set eyes upon its macabre details for hundreds of years. It was the dark entrance of the small building set in the centre of the flat top that he headed toward. Inside he found nothing; it was as empty as a hermit's address book.
"But Moriarty hadn't travelled all that way to be discouraged so eas
ily. He examined every nook, cranny and stone until he finally discovered that which he sought; a loose stone. He pressed it. A slab in the centre of the floor dropped down and slid to one side. He lit a lantern and shone its light into the dark void. A stone staircase led into the depths of the pyramid. Having no fear of what lay below, Moriarty descended. He searched every room on his way down, but found no sign of the precious object he was so desperate to unearth. Deeper and deeper he went, far deeper than the height of the pyramid he had climbed before, so deep he thought he would soon arrive in Hell itself. But still no fear did the man experience. His mind was set on one goal and he would not give up until the task became pointless or death prevented him from carrying on.
"After what seemed to be many hours, he finally arrived at the bottom. His only route to travel was an ominous dark tunnel cloaked in an atmosphere that warned one not to enter. Moriarty entered. It was the first time since a child that he had felt nervous. He sensed what lay at the tunnel's end was something beyond his imagination. The thought of the great prize spurred his legs forward and his concerns aside. And then he saw it…" Furtive paused and cocked the gun. Its mechanism functioned as smooth as Casanova's tongue on a first meeting with a beautiful lady he wished to seduce. He handed it through the bars and it was passed to its owner who cocked it appreciatively as soon as it was in his grasp.
"Wow, that's great. Thanks, Mr. Murdersin."
"You are welcome. Now back to the story. Moriarty had reached the end of the tunnel and stood at the entrance to a large cavern. His prize, the mysterious ancient artefact, waited for him upon a stone pedestal on the far side of the chamber. But Moriarty was no fool, he suspected the room was booby-trapped and as soon as he set one foot on the innocent looking floor all hell would break loose. For a few moments he stood there completing the dilemma he faced; how was he going to reach the artefact without setting off the traps? He concluded the mechanism for setting off the traps would be located within the smooth area of stone slabs that covered most of the floor; however, around the edge he noticed a small area of rough floor no wider than his hand. It was this that would allow him safe passage to the pedestal. He would grab the artifact and retrace his steps around the edge back to the passage, along the tunnel, up the steps, down the side of the pyramid and head home through the jungle.