Tristan stopped, took a few deep breaths, gathered himself and with senses regained, set off once more. Getting to Edward Morgan’s mansion from the tobacco factory should have been a quick and easy task but tonight, the many trees and shrubs, which were dotted all around the property, created a dark and wet maze. Luckily for Tristan, the building was tall and its contours visible against the starry sky to the west. Towards the northeast, over the hunting grounds, another storm was building. Now and then he could see lightning flash, and a few seconds later, distant thunder reached his ears.
According to Cuthbert, the baron lived alone in the big house after he had lost his wife to the fever two months after the Morgans had first arrived. Large parts of the mansion were unused, kept untouched and off-limits to anyone who visited. For a wealthy man who had most of the town’s businessmen in his pocket, Tristan still knew very little about the Welshman apart from what Cuthbert had told him. Not that it mattered. The man was the mastermind behind Isabella’s defilement and her parents’ disappearance. He thoroughly deserved what was coming his way.
Tristan made his way around the outbuildings at the back, careful not to disturb the natives or animals who resided in them. A low growl from a dog on a rope close to the chicken coop made him give the place an even wider berth. The wet grass deterred the animal from further inspection, and after another peevish growl, the dog sought shelter once more. Tristan retrieved the meaty bone from the cloth that was stuffed into his pocket, threw it close to where the dog had disappeared and continued circling the house around the hedgerows of native brush until he finally found himself looking at its front porch from the inner sanctum of a massive guava tree. The sweet smell of rotten pulpy fruit under his boots filled the air around him while he peeked through the branches.
He was expecting complete darkness or perhaps a light in the far-right room on the second storey, but a light in the study downstairs caught him by surprise. The shutters were open, and he could look through the glass windows.
Edward Morgan was sitting in his large study. The man, whom Tristan had been watching night after night for the past three weeks, had a predictable routine. Throughout the day, the businessman conducted his affairs from the safety of his study. Very rarely did he leave his house. Instead, his subordinates and associates flocked to him. He ate his breakfast and supper in the dining room, across the hallway on the opposite side of the study and was usually upstairs in his bedroom at this hour.
Very predictable, thought Tristan, but not tonight. He climbed up onto a sturdy bough, took out his spyglass and peeked through the window. Morgan sat behind a wooden desk on the right side of the room opposite the room’s entrance, completely absorbed with a letter that he was writing. His pink tongue peeked out from his mouth and accentuated his white complexion, which was fit for a man who did not see daylight that often. Sitting back, he admired his handiwork and took a sip from a crystal glass that was filled with a golden-brown liquid. For a moment, he looked like countless, ordinary men around the world, minding their own business in the serenity of their homes – peaceful, almost innocent-like. Tristan smirked. He had heard somewhere that innocence was in the eye of the beholder. How unfortunate for this man. Little did he know that death was just outside, waiting to knock on his door.
A gust of wind rustled the leaves above Tristan’s head, a forewarning of the imminent storm. Heavy drops of rain drifted in on the next breeze, and a flash of lightning lit up the whole area around him. It had caught Morgan’s eye too, and for a moment, it felt like the man was staring straight at him. The loud crack of thunder that followed sparked Tristan into action. He needed to act. Now.
He had planned on using the pergola on the northern side of the house to gain entrance to the second storey. Back on the ground, he dashed across the open terrain to the front porch and briefly toyed with the idea of knocking on the front door. It could be an easy kill, or he could be staring down the barrel of a pistol, so he swiftly discarded the notion and proceeded with his original plan.
The lattices and posts which made up the trellis were sturdy, and in a matter of seconds, he clambered on top of the pergola, which ran around the house’s side. Scrambling across the vine-covered beams, Tristan found himself right in front of the window where he wanted to be. The stiletto made light work of the shutters, and as he started pulling out the dagger to work on the window latch, he came up with a different idea. He waited patiently for the right moment, every now and then looking around the corner to the ground in front of the house to ensure that the light was still coming from the same room.
Lightning struck nearby, and when the thunder cracked, he smashed the window with the butt of a dagger. Quickly he reached inside and unhooked the metal hinge. Next, he stuck the dagger underneath the wooden frame and wiggled it around to loosen it up. It started to budge, and he slowly lifted the heavy bottom sash of the window while listening for any noise coming from downstairs, hoping that the closed door would have muffled any sound. He left the shutters open and waited until the room in front of him got lit up from outside. Sitting on the windowsill, he quickly gauged the distance to the door and looked for any obvious hindrances. All clear. After making his way into the room, all the while trying to avoid the broken glass on the floor, he gently lowered the frame back into place and made a beeline for the door, which he opened slowly to lessen the chance of any unwanted squeaks.
Once through the door, he found himself at the top of the staircase on an interior balcony staring straight ahead at a chandelier which hung from the ceiling. Below, the front entrance opened up into a great room which had several lanterns that burned brightly, not only lighting up the room itself but also the rest of the large space as their light reflected off the chandelier’s crystals above. To his left, the balcony with its beautifully crafted rail ran all around the great room leading to several upstairs rooms, all of which had their doors closed, except the last one. Must be the man’s bedroom.
Tristan could hear the rain getting heavier, and under cover of the dull pitter-patter on the thatched roof, he descended down the staircase and headed across the great room towards Morgan’s office. He had no specific plan apart from walking into the study to confront and kill the man, so that is exactly what he did.
Edward Morgan had been in many ominous situations in his lifetime, so when he looked up and saw the wet young man standing in the door’s entrance, he counted on years of experience to hide his surprise and carried on as if disturbances like this were nothing new. ‘Mr Tristan Conway, I presume?’
Tristan did not answer him, just stared at the man, letting his presence speak for itself. An awkward silence followed that caused the older man some uneasiness, but he held Tristan’s gaze, thoughtfully twisting his impressive and immaculately groomed moustache.
‘I was wondering when I would have the pleasure.’ Slowly the man stood up and adjusted his silk nightshirt which had fluttered down to his knees. He proceeded to walk around the table, dragging the crystal glass along its well-worn wooden surface.
Tristan entered the room, and as he got closer to Morgan, he noticed that the man was taller and skinnier than he appeared through the window all those nights. While the presence of the bushy moustache helped the willowy fella cut an imposing figure, Tristan could not help but smirk at the two dainty legs that peeked from underneath the gown, for they were as white as the material that covered them.
Morgan put out his hand and said, ‘I—‘
Tristan’s right fist caught him square on the lower jaw and mouth. The forceful blow split both lips and sent the man reeling backwards until his buttocks hit the desk behind, allowing him to grab onto something solid to keep his balance. With angry eyes and grasping his bleeding mouth, Morgan shouted, ‘What in God’s name…do you have any idea who I am? I will have your fucking head for this!’ His murderous voice, filled with a tint of agony, sent droplets of blood splattering all over his neat gown and across the floor, where they quickly disappeared int
o the dark-coloured Persian carpet.
’The right question is, Mr Morgan, do I care enough about who you are?’ said Tristan calmly. His answer further rattled the man, who had managed to steady himself against the desk and regained some of his composure.
Morgan had wiped most of the blood from his chin using his sleeves, but when he tried to speak, he grimaced as pain shot through his bruised jaw. Nevertheless, he persevered, treading carefully this time as his lips oozed fresh blood. ‘So then you do know who I am.’ The older man took a moment to assess the situation, relying on the shrewdness that had served him well over the years. If the young man wanted me dead, he probably would have tried that already. No! He needs something, thought Morgan. ‘In that case, you would also know that I can make life very difficult for you around these parts or, if you’re differently inclined, I can also make you rich beyond the wildest dreams of even a young man like yourself. This place is a treasure trove, lad. Slaves. Gold. And not to mention the ivory, of course, a bountiful resource as you have witnessed first-hand.’ Morgan pressed home the last point for he had witnessed their success through spying eyes.
‘The way I see it, Mr Morgan,’ – Tristan looked around the room with a sardonic grin – ‘tis just you and me. There’s nobody else here, nor is there anyone coming, so spare me the empty threats. And as for those other things that make rich men like you rise in the morning, I couldn’t care less for them. Stop wasting your breath as you’re in no position to dictate any terms in this conversation.’ Tristan walked across the bloodied carpet to where the confused man was standing. ‘I can see you’re a little bit puzzled as per the reason for my late-night visit. So, let me put you out of your misery for I’m here on business, Mr Morgan, representing the Silveiras. And now that I have your undivided attention, I suggest that we get underway.’ He could see Morgan was boiling inside, taking directions from what he considered to be a whippersnapper, an intruder in his haven of safety. Good, thought Tristan and added a smug smile to insult the man further.
‘Business on behalf of the Silveiras? As far as I’m aware, Mr Conway, they have all left town. Perhaps they were not as well-suited to this place as they had initially thought. A harsh, unforgiving land this can be, as shown by the tragedy that had befallen Miss Silveira before their departure. A terrible, despicable act that has happened to such a lovely lady and I, for one, would continue to do everything in my power to bring those responsible to swift justice.’
Morgan was a master conniver, and his speech was so innocent in its delivery that if Tristan had not known the full extent of his involvement, he wondered if he might have believed the man. Perhaps it was the man’s ignorance, paired with his pompous nature that made him believe that no one would dare to challenge his authority or word in what he considered to be his town. Tristan needed no further encouragement. It was time to hurry proceedings along.
‘Sir, you are taking me for a fool, so perhaps a tad more persuasion is needed on my part.’ Tristan pulled out the stiletto, its sheen matching the menacing glint in his eyes. He saw the panic flash across Morgan’s face, that exact moment where delusions disappeared, and reality firmly set in. ‘The Silveiras require no further assistance on your part, and the justice you so desperately seek is here. I promise it will be swift.’ He slowly moved the knife from side to side, letting the yellow light reflect off the triangular blade. ‘When your nephew and his henchman laid their filthy paws on Mr Silveira’s daughter, unbeknownst to them, they had sealed their fates and set in motion a range of actions with rather serious implications, one of which have brought me to your house on this particular night.’
Morgan looked at him askance. ‘Owain? What have you done to him?’
Tristan sheathed the stiletto for he had made his point. Perhaps now the man would cooperate. ‘You should be more concerned about your own fate, Mr Morgan. The deceased no longer concern themselves with matters of fate.’ He straightened his jacket. ‘Now back to the business at—’
‘You bastard! If you—‘
‘I am not the bastard here, you ignorant fuck!’ Tristan exploded verbally and physically. ‘You and your thugs have ruined the lives of so many innocent people,’ he yelled while he grabbed Morgan by the collar, fending off grasping hands. With near-brutelike strength, he lifted the older man and threw him across his desk.
Morgan slid off the back, knocking over the chair with his shoulder, and dove head-first into the wooden shelves behind his desk. The rest of his body followed and broke the shelves off the back wall as he tumbled towards the ground, his hands desperately seeking for something to hold onto. Books and ornaments came crashing down and created a mess of shards and paper on the floor. Tristan almost pitied the crumpled sight in front of him as Embomma’s so-called powerful baron cowered up against the wall, while blood poured from the cut to the top of his bald head.
‘Wait! Wait.’ The man held out his hand and pushed himself upright into a sitting position, breathing heavily. ‘There must be something I can do for you or give to you to convince you otherwise! Do you want money? Perhaps gold? I have gold!’ pleaded the man, his voice quavering.
‘You want mercy? What about Francesco Silveira and his wife? Did they plead before your men killed him and did they show them any mercy! What about Isabella? Did she beg your men to stop when they repeatedly raped her? Did they show any mercy?’ Lightning lit up the skies outside followed by thunder that rattled the whole house.
‘Progress has no mercy, Mr Conway!’ Seeing the crazed look on the young man’s face, Morgan knew he was at a pivotal moment in time, fighting for his life. Remarkably it helped him to regain some composure, and he fought through the pain that permeated his battered body. ‘To achieve progress in any place, hard decisions are sometimes required. In Embomma, I’m the man who makes those decisions. Ask around. Nothing happens in this place without my approval. Hell, if the village chief wants to take a shit, he needs to get my permission first!’ Morgan used the side of a broken shelf to push himself upright and finally managed to rise on unsteady feet.
‘What the fuck does that have anything to do with the Silveiras?’
‘Silveira wouldn’t cooperate, alright! An unreasonable dunce, on his own bloody crusade of morality, serving only himself and his men, doing nothing for the good of this town. The man had no vision and neither could he see mine. I would have none of it! For years I begged him. I don’t beg! To anyone! For anything! Something had to be done!’
‘So you did away with them? You had them killed?’
‘I had to, you fool!’ Morgan spat out the words and shook his head reflectively. ‘Then that imprudent wife of his. She just had to go look for her husband.’
The eerie silence that followed made both men feel uneasy, the only sound heavy raindrops that bombarded the thatched roof. Tristan was dumbstruck with the ease in which the arrogant man had admitted his involvement.
Morgan saw the surprise on Tristan’s face. He didn’t know. With bloodstained teeth, the old man tittered at his own stupidity. The fucker didn’t know!
More lightning flashed outside as Tristan started walking towards him. ‘I need the deed for Santa Verdade. The document your men took from the Silveiras’ house.’
Morgan’s face lit up as he finally realised why he was not dead yet. ‘Why, of course! I have it in the safe. Just give me a minute.’ He fumbled with the chain around his neck as he stumbled over to the dimly lit corner. Nestled in between two cabinets stood an iron-clad strongbox. Morgan removed the chain and tried to insert the key, but he struggled to find the keyhole in the dark, his shaking hands not making matters easier. Finally, Tristan heard the dull metallic thud as the lock opened, slightly bemused by the man’s sudden need to cooperate. Morgan had his back to him, but he could see the man open the safe, reaching for its contents.
Tristan sensed something was wrong and was about to take a step closer when, in the blink of an eye, still crouched, Morgan swivelled around with a triumphant grin. In his h
and was a French flintlock pistol, the small type that Tristan had seen on rich gentlemen and ladies throughout his travels, and it was aimed straight at his midriff. Looking around for cover, Tristan quickly concluded there was nowhere to hide and upon hearing the metallic click, closed his eyes and braced for the impact.
Nothing!
When he opened his eyes, Morgan had already thrown the misfired weapon at him. It hit him on the upper arm, and as he watched it fall to the ground, Morgan pulled a dagger from the safe and charged at him, screaming incoherently. Tristan immediately went into a trancelike state. Everything around him slowed down and as if by magic, the stiletto appeared in his right hand.
Tristan let the man come at him with the dagger, and at the last moment moved to his left and pushed Morgan’s thrusting arm out of the way with his left hand. Morgan’s momentum carried him forwards and presented his side to Tristan, who immediately thrust the stiletto in between the old man’s lower ribs and pierced his right kidney and liver, three times in quick succession. Screams of pain filled the house, but the storm outside drowned out the sound.
Morgan dropped the dagger and stumbled over to the table trying to keep upright, but his body was already going into shock. His legs started giving way, and as he slumped forwards, he rolled onto and over the corner of the table and crashed into the already dismantled bookshelf, landing between the feet of the overturned chair. The excruciating pain that shot up his body caused him to arch his back before it reduced him to a whimpering heap.
With the flintlock pistol now in his hand, Tristan crouched in front of him. In Morgan’s eyes, there was no bravado left – not even fear – only a man resigned to his fate. Tristan knew that Morgan had seen this same scene unfold in front of his very own eyes many times in his lifetime. The man knew there was no way out. No amount of talk or money could get him out of this position. There was him, and then there was death – the only other certainty in this hour, the moment of truth.
The Fire Within Page 45