Read Online Jack, Knave and Fool by Bruce Alexander - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Bruce Alexander
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old, his tools were not near as safe as he seemed to think them.
He bent to insert the key and turned it in the lock. I must have been bending over him somewhat myself, for when of a sudden he looked sharp to the left, his head was quite near mine.
“There’s one of them now,” he whispered urgently, “one of them nekkid women!”
To my discredit, I turned to look. That was my great mistake. For with my attention uselessly averted (there was nothing to be seen), he uncoiled his lean body against me with surprising force and sent me sprawling in a heap against the far wall of the hall. Before I could regain my feet, the door was open, he was inside, and the door was shut again. By the time I righted myself and stumbled over to it, I had heard the key turn in the lock.
I beat bootlessly upon the door with my fist. “Open up!” I shouted. “I’m to keep you in sight at all times!”
Laughter was his response. “I’ll be out directly,” he called.
Through the door I heard steps, movement, a great flurry of activity. It occurred to me that if I could hear through it so plain, the door must not be so very thick. Perhaps I could batter it down. And so, backing off to the Ear wall, I took two running steps and hurled myself against it, shoulder first.
I felt it give somewhat, but I also felt a stab of pain pass through my shoulder. I might indeed be able to knock open the door, but I should likely cripple myself before I was done. There must be some better, faster method, I thought, then remembered what Constable Perkins had taught me not so long ago: that it was possible to destroy a lock with a shot from a gun. The trick, he said, was in the placement of the ball —not direct into the lock, but between the door and the doorframe, where the bolt of the lock fits into the hasp.
I drew out a pistol from its holster and found the place I thought likeliest. Then, hauling back the hammer, I held the pistol close and pulled the trigger. It was a good-sized pistol which fired a good-sized ball. It jumped in my hand as the shot exploded loudly from it, so that I feared it may have hit above the mark. But no—as the smoke from the gunpowder cleared, I saw the ball was well placed. It had blown a hole of frightening dimension in the wood at just the spot at which I had aimed.
I holstered the pistol, pulled out the club I had been given by Mr. Fuller, the gaoler, and gave a great kick to the door —and then another. Then did the door fly open, scattering bits of lock and ball over the floor of the room beyond.
I leapt inside and looked about. I saw nothing of Roundtree —only a window with both panels opened wide. I ran to it and looked down. Indeed there he was, not more than ten feet below but hurrying without a look back down a narrow dirt passage to the street, toolbox and a few other belongings in hand.
Pulling out my second pistol, I thought I might still get in a wounding shot, if indeed I did not kill him, but … Yes, “but” indeed. Was ten shillings worth wounding a man, possibly killing him? Angry as I was at him, furious as I was at myself, I could only answer that in the negative. I eased back the hammer of the pistol and tucked the weapon away.
Though I had no expectation, nor even hope, of finding Thomas Roundtree there, I went direct to the residence of the Lord Chief Justice in Bloomsbury Square.
Having hastened a fair distance in a high state of emotion, I was in a proper sweat by the time I took hold the great knocker and rapped loudly upon the door. As expected, the butler appeared. I resolved I would stand for none of the usual nonsense from him that morning.
“Ah,” said he, “it is the boy from Bow Street. If you wish to see the Lord Chief Justice, I am afraid that is impossible dressed as you are. Goodness! You’re even wearing pistols — certainly not with pistols! You’d best give me the letter, and trust me to — “
“No, I do not wish to see the Lord Chief Justice,” I
He bent to insert the key and turned it in the lock. I must have been bending over him somewhat myself, for when of a sudden he looked sharp to the left, his head was quite near mine.
“There’s one of them now,” he whispered urgently, “one of them nekkid women!”
To my discredit, I turned to look. That was my great mistake. For with my attention uselessly averted (there was nothing to be seen), he uncoiled his lean body against me with surprising force and sent me sprawling in a heap against the far wall of the hall. Before I could regain my feet, the door was open, he was inside, and the door was shut again. By the time I righted myself and stumbled over to it, I had heard the key turn in the lock.
I beat bootlessly upon the door with my fist. “Open up!” I shouted. “I’m to keep you in sight at all times!”
Laughter was his response. “I’ll be out directly,” he called.
Through the door I heard steps, movement, a great flurry of activity. It occurred to me that if I could hear through it so plain, the door must not be so very thick. Perhaps I could batter it down. And so, backing off to the Ear wall, I took two running steps and hurled myself against it, shoulder first.
I felt it give somewhat, but I also felt a stab of pain pass through my shoulder. I might indeed be able to knock open the door, but I should likely cripple myself before I was done. There must be some better, faster method, I thought, then remembered what Constable Perkins had taught me not so long ago: that it was possible to destroy a lock with a shot from a gun. The trick, he said, was in the placement of the ball —not direct into the lock, but between the door and the doorframe, where the bolt of the lock fits into the hasp.
I drew out a pistol from its holster and found the place I thought likeliest. Then, hauling back the hammer, I held the pistol close and pulled the trigger. It was a good-sized pistol which fired a good-sized ball. It jumped in my hand as the shot exploded loudly from it, so that I feared it may have hit above the mark. But no—as the smoke from the gunpowder cleared, I saw the ball was well placed. It had blown a hole of frightening dimension in the wood at just the spot at which I had aimed.
I holstered the pistol, pulled out the club I had been given by Mr. Fuller, the gaoler, and gave a great kick to the door —and then another. Then did the door fly open, scattering bits of lock and ball over the floor of the room beyond.
I leapt inside and looked about. I saw nothing of Roundtree —only a window with both panels opened wide. I ran to it and looked down. Indeed there he was, not more than ten feet below but hurrying without a look back down a narrow dirt passage to the street, toolbox and a few other belongings in hand.
Pulling out my second pistol, I thought I might still get in a wounding shot, if indeed I did not kill him, but … Yes, “but” indeed. Was ten shillings worth wounding a man, possibly killing him? Angry as I was at him, furious as I was at myself, I could only answer that in the negative. I eased back the hammer of the pistol and tucked the weapon away.
Though I had no expectation, nor even hope, of finding Thomas Roundtree there, I went direct to the residence of the Lord Chief Justice in Bloomsbury Square.
Having hastened a fair distance in a high state of emotion, I was in a proper sweat by the time I took hold the great knocker and rapped loudly upon the door. As expected, the butler appeared. I resolved I would stand for none of the usual nonsense from him that morning.
“Ah,” said he, “it is the boy from Bow Street. If you wish to see the Lord Chief Justice, I am afraid that is impossible dressed as you are. Goodness! You’re even wearing pistols — certainly not with pistols! You’d best give me the letter, and trust me to — “
“No, I do not wish to see the Lord Chief Justice,” I
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