Upon being informed by Max’s schoolmaster that Max was exhibiting some unseemly behavioral issues, she promptly found the best psychiatrist in London, who diagnosed Max with Histrionic Personality Disorder, and had Max on medication within days. Max had to admit that the meds did help. He no longer felt as emotional or out of control, but to some degree, they also altered his personality. He was meant to be taking them for the rest of his life, but he often skipped days or reduced the dose, believing that he wasn’t doing any harm. Well, perhaps his obsession with Neve and his quest to find the passage had been the result. Maybe even his attempt on Hugo’s life since Max allowed his paranoia to control his actions.
But, what a hoot it would be to regale Simon with tales of his escape from Barbados and his plan to kill Hugo in the mines of Paris, making him one of the first corpses to grace the eventual Catacombs of Paris. It was like something out of Alexander Dumas, Max mused. He’d always admired the Count of Monte Cristo. And now he’d had his own adventure, one that would make for an exciting book. Max suddenly sat up, his mouth open in an O of surprise. That’s it; that’s what he would do. He would write a time-travel adventure. He’d always been good with words, and no research would be needed. He could describe life in the seventeenth century in painstaking detail, giving his story a harsh realism that so many fantasy novels lacked. He would tell his own story, his hero a cross between James Bond and the Count of Monte Cristo.
“What an idea!” Max breathed to himself as he swung his legs off the cot. He heard the echo of footsteps in the corridor. Supper was coming, and with it a flask of wine. He needed a drink to celebrate this genius idea. Perhaps he could purchase some paper and ink and start writing in the morning. It would help pass the hours till Hugo came.
Max rose to his feet as he heard the scrape of a key in the lock and reached for tinder and flint; he’d have light while he ate his supper. It used to take him a dozen strikes to light a candle, but these days he was a pro. He produced a spark in seconds, and a tiny flame sprang to life just as the door opened and two men came in, closing the door silently behind them. Max opened his mouth to enquire about his food when he realized that neither man looked like a guard. They were well dressed in suits made of fine fabric and adorned with wide lace collars, and expensive footwear with jeweled buckles and chunky heels. The candlelight glinted off silver buttons and sword scabbards.
There was something foreign about the men. They appeared to be Dutch, which Max supposed wasn’t that surprising since they were countrymen of the new monarch. Perhaps they’d come to interview Hugo or inform him of the trial date. Max suddenly stiffened. There could be another reason for this visit; the men might have been dispatched to interrogate, rather than question. Max was all too aware of the methods of torture available at the Tower. He had been repeatedly beaten and tortured when here last, and the memory made Max take a step back, his heart suddenly beating hard against his ribs despite the outward aura of calm.
The taller man hung back. He appeared to be in his forties, with gaunt features and a receding hairline. He had light slanted eyes which were fringed by nearly colorless lashes. A thin scar ran the length of his cheek from the outer corner of the eye, past the prominent nose, and to his mouth, and gave him a sinister appearance. The shorter man was younger and more handsome. He wore a suit of black velvet, which matched his jet-black hair and dark eyes. A thick, pointy beard looked incongruous against the almost unnatural paleness of his skin. Had he been clean-shaven, he would have looked much younger and less severe. Max was momentarily distracted by the large tear-drop pearl which swung rhythmically from his left earlobe, the movement of the pearlescent orb mesmerizing as it reflected the flame of the candle.
Max tore his eyes away from the pearl and focused on the man’s face. His unwavering gaze caught Max’s attention. Whereas the taller man looked somewhat blank and indifferent, the younger man studied Max is if he were taking an x-ray. His stare was penetrating and speculative, as if he had an idea of some sort and was trying to ascertain whether it would work.
Max hung back, unsure of how to react to this unexpected visit. Whoever these men were, he had to pretend to be Hugo, and hope that his ruse was successful. The younger man appeared to be satisfied with what he saw and finally came forward, a friendly smile now on his face. He no longer looked as somber as before, but the smile never quite reached the eyes, making Max wonder what the man was about.
“Lord Everly?” the man asked as he held out his hand. It was surprisingly calloused, given the man’s prosperous appearance, and the handshake stronger than Max expected. The man squeezed Max’s hand with a vice-like grip, nearly making him wince. Perhaps Hugo had found another man of law to defend himself, Max speculated, but this man didn’t look much like a lawyer.
“Yes. Who do I have the pleasure of addressing?” Max asked. The man bowed elaborately, extending one foot and opening his arms wide, as if Max were a royal and this man his humble courtier.
“My name is Jurgen Van Houten,” the man replied courteously, “and this is my associate, Master Jan Van Orden. We were sent by His Majesty, King William III. He wishes to apologize for any inconvenience caused and hopes you are being treated well during your stay. If there’s anything you require, please let me know, and I will see that you get it.”
The man made it sound as if Max were staying at a swanky hotel rather than being detained at His Majesty’s pleasure in the Tower of London.
“His Majesty believes in your innocence, and is working to secure your release. It should be no more than a few days,” Van Houten continued.
“How kind,” Max replied, astounded by this speech. So, Hugo would be set free. He must have put the time Max granted him to good use. If the king believed him to be innocent, then the release was imminent. Several years ago, Max would have found this maddening, but now he smiled happily. It was all happening as it should.
“Would you join us in a cup of wine, your lordship?” Master Van Houten asked as his companion produced a small bottle and three cups.
“Yes, thank you,” Max replied, accepting a cup of very fine claret. The men drank a toast to Their Majesties, then the cups were refilled for another round of drinks.
“If you wouldn’t mind, your lordship, perhaps you could write a short note to the king, letting him know that you look forward to being free and wishing him the best in his reign.”
Van Houten produced writing paper and a quill with a small bottle of ink. Max scrolled a few lines and signed Hugo’s name with a flourish. He’d seen Hugo’s signature before and had no difficulty in copying it.
“His Majesty will be most pleased,” Van Houten said as he accepted the note and returned Max’s cup to him. “One more toast before we go. Your health, Lord Everly,” Van Houten exclaimed, raising the cup in a toast.
“And yours, sirs,” Max replied, draining the cup. The claret tasted strange this time, and Max was surprised to find a bitter residue on his tongue. What had the man added to his cup while he was busy writing?
Max gazed at Van Houten in surprise as his vision blurred and his limbs turned to lead. The cell swam before him, the ringing in his ears blocking out all other sounds. Max was sure there had only been one candle, but now he saw dozens of tiny flames, all hovering like hungry, licking tongues in his peripheral vision and making him dizzy and nauseous. Van Houten seemed to be saying something, but his mouth moved soundlessly, like an actor in a pantomime. The other man, Jan Van Orden, stood watching Max, his head cocked to the side, a look of impatience on his face. Neither man moved to help Max.
Max inched toward the cot and collapsed on it heavily. He tried to speak, but all he could produce were a few gurgles which didn’t resemble any actual words. His mind was still working, but his body didn’t respond to any commands, and he just lay there like a sack of potatoes. Max closed his eyes for a moment to block out the candle flames, which seemed to be multiplying and floating above his face. He might have drifted off to sleep had the
sound of breaking glass not startled him out of his stupor. Max forced his eyes open. His eyelids felt heavy, and he could only open them to mere slits. He turned his head toward the sound, feeling as if he were underwater.
Van Houten had used the three-legged stool to break the window. He carefully chose a large shard of glass and examined it carefully before approaching the cot. He sat down next to Max and gently brushed the hair out of Max’s eyes. The gesture was so tender that it nearly made Max cry. The man was looking at him with kindness, his lips stretched into a small smile, the kind a mother might have on her face while watching her baby sleep. Van Houten took Max’s hand. The other man approached the cot and pushed up the sleeve of Max’s shirt, exposing his wrist. Max tried to cry out in protest, but no words came out. His heart, which should now be hammering frantically, seemed to be hardly beating, as if fading away. Van Houten grabbed Max’s hand harder and drew the glass across his wrist. Max felt a momentary pain before blood welled above the cut and began to flow into his hand, which Van Houten had released, and onto the stone floor. Van Houten repeated the procedure with the second wrist, then carefully placed the shard of glass on the floor just beneath Max’s hand. Max’s mind was now as sluggish as his body, a strange languidness taking over as he tried to understand why these men had come to kill him.
“Not Hugo,” he croaked, his voice barely audible.
“What did he say?” Van Orden asked.
“What does it matter?” Van Houten shrugged. “The deed is done.”
Van Houten leaned over Max and looked into his panicked eyes. “I am sorry, your lordship, truly I am.” He planted a kiss of benediction on Max’s brow, laid the note on the table where it couldn’t be missed, and left with his companion, taking the wine and cups and closing the door softly behind him.
Bitter tears slid down Max’s temples and into his hair as the lifeblood drained out of him. He might have been able to stop the bleeding if he were able to find the strength to rise, but his limbs felt like iron bars. He was very nearly paralyzed, only his mind was still working, if at a much slower pace. “Why?” it kept asking. He could feel blood trickling down his hands and onto the floor. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but suddenly his body no longer felt leaden. He was floating. It was a pleasant feeling. He was weightless and free of pain, which could only mean one thing.
“Heavenly Father,” Max mouthed soundlessly, “please forgive my sins and accept me into your loving embrace.” He closed his eyes moments before his heart ceased beating.
Chapter 11
Hugo woke from a fitful sleep, his head aching dully. And little wonder; he’d finished off the bottle of brandy last night before falling asleep still fully dressed. His clothes were wrinkled and sweaty, and the air in the room smelled stale and alcoholic. He’d spent hours the day before walking the streets in an effort to come up with some semblance of a plan, but nothing presented itself. Tonight he would be returning to the Tower, having accomplished very little of value. He’d written several letters: one to Neve, two to his children, should he never get the chance to see them again, and another to Archie. He meant to write one to Brad as well, but found himself feeling so gutted after writing to Valentine and Michael that he succumbed to melancholy and turned to the drink. It had been a moment of weakness, but he supposed he was allowed one, under the circumstances.
Hugo forced himself out of bed, took off his rumpled shirt and poured some water into the basin. He washed his face and then his upper body with cold water before putting on a clean shirt. Shaving was pointless since he couldn’t shave in the Tower for lack of a razor, and suddenly appearing clean-shaven would only alert the guards that he was up to something. He brushed his hair and cleaned his teeth. There was a heel of bread, some cheese, and a bit of ale left over from the day before, but the mice had gotten at the cheese, and the bread was surrounded by droppings. He needed to eat something to settle his heaving stomach, so he grabbed his hat and coat and made his way downstairs. The smell of fresh bread and porridge nearly made him ill, but he accepted a bowl from the innkeeper’s daughter and held out his cup for some ale. The girl poured the drink and then returned with half a loaf of bread which she placed in front of Hugo.
“Was there something else, child?” Hugo asked when he saw the girl’s air of suppressed excitement. He had no time for idle chatter. He had to come up with some sort of plan by midday, or all was lost, but the girl was obviously bursting to tell him something, and it was always good to listen, in case she had some useful information.
“Haven’t ye heard, sir?” the girl exclaimed, glad of a chance to gossip. “The traitor Everly did away with himself last night. All o’ London is talking o’ it,” she announced with glee, glad to have gotten to him first.
Hugo nearly choked on his porridge. “He did away with himself? Are you certain? How?” He must have misheard, but the girl was nodding vigorously, eager to tell the tale.
“Oh, aye. They say ‘e left a suicide note, wishin’ Their Majesties a long and happy reign and sayin’ that ‘e was lookin’ forward to finally bein’ free. They say tis written in ‘is own hand and signed.”
“How did he do it?” Hugo demanded, astounded.
“Smashed the window and used a bit o’ glass to slash ‘is wrists. They say the floor was covered in blood by the time the guard found ‘im. Proves ‘e was guilty, if ye ask me,” the girl added wisely. “Took the coward’s way out.”
Hugo gripped the edge of the table as a wave of vertigo assaulted him. “Are ye quite well, sir?” the girl asked.
“Yes, thank you. A bit too much brandy last night; that’s all.”
“Well, ale is the best remedy for what ails ye. And bread. Absorbs all the evil humors, it does. Here, let me help ye.”
The girl tore off a chunk of bread and held it to Hugo’s mouth as if she were feeding a child. He dutifully accepted the bread and began to chew it slowly as the vertigo receded somewhat. Another piece of bread was shoved into his mouth, but he hardly noticed. None of this made any sense. He needed to find out more.
Hugo forced himself to finish his breakfast, then rose to his feet and stumbled from the inn. No one paid him any mind as he walked toward the Tower. A gentle rain fell, turning the streets muddy and the stone walls slick with moisture. He expected to see gawkers in front of the gates, but no one was about, the gates firmly shut. Thick gray clouds floated above the fortress, the thunderous-looking mass almost pressing down on the tall towers. There was nothing to be learned here, so Hugo walked toward Westminster Abbey instead. People always congregated there, more interested in finding shelter from the rain and gossiping than in praying.
There were several dozen people inside the abbey. No service would be performed until sext at noon, so people sat in the pews talking, conducting business, or simply waiting out the rain. Someone had actually lit a small fire in the nave, using an old metal pot as a means of containing the flames. The fire also provided some light, since the interior was shadowed in gloom, hardly any light filtering through the stained-glass windows on such a dreary morning. Several people stood about, holding their hands out to the welcome warmth. Hugo joined the group, standing silently as the fire warmed him.
“Have you heard the news then?” One of the men asked him. The man was clearly poor, but his clothes were mended in places and relatively clean. He had an intelligent face and educated speech. Perhaps a tradesman who’d fallen on hard times. Hugo wanted to hear the news, but he needed facts, not idle gossip, and hoped this man was in possession of the true story.
“No, what news would that be?” Hugo asked, noncommittally.
“Lord Hugo Everly committed suicide last night.” The man actually looked upset as he shared the news, so Hugo judged the conversation worth pursuing.
“Aren’t you sorry to hear the traitor’s dead?” Hugo asked.
“Traitor? That man was no traitor, and I find it hard to believe that he would take his own life.”
“He le
ft a note, he did,” another man chimed in. “Signed it and all.”
“So what? Notes can be forged. Everly was a brave man, a man of principle. I can’t see that he would kill himself before the trial,” the first man protested.
“Unless he was guilty. I’d say doing away with yourself is the ultimate admission of guilt,” an older woman said, shaking her head.
“Perhaps he was murdered,” a young lad, who appeared to be the woman’s grandson, piped in, his eyes huge with curiosity.
“Anything is possible, lad, anything,” the first man said.
“Don’t be daft, Harry. What would be the point of killing the man? He’d be executed soon enough, if guilty. Why hasten his end?” the woman argued.
“To discredit him further, and deny him a Christian burial,” the man named Harry said with disgust.
“I wonder if his widow knows yet,” the young boy said, warming up to the subject.
Hugo felt a sudden stab in the gut. He’d been so preoccupied with learning about Max that he hadn’t thought of what effect his news would have on Neve. She might not have heard yet, but she would soon enough. News traveled quickly, passed from person to person, traveler to villager, and so on. People who left London this morning would spread the news far and wide by tomorrow, and it would reach Neve’s ears soon enough. What would she think when she heard that he’d committed suicide? He had to get to Cranley as soon as possible. There was nothing more to be done in London.
Comes The Dawn (The Wonderland Series: Book 5) Page 6