Read Online The Affair of the Chalk Cliffs by James P. Blaylock - Free Book Online Page B

and sliced off the ruined corner of the cheese, which he flung over his shoulder. He flipped the open knife neatly into the air, moonlight glinting off the blade, and let it fall onto the table, where it stuck quivering.
    “The Doctor would particularly appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Goodson. Indeed he would. He’s a generous man, the Doctor—a generous man. No one moreso when good work’s been done.” The Peddler looked steadily at Goodson, who seemed to be reconsidering his ways. After a moment he swallowed what he was chewing and walked unhappily to the wagon, where he drew out a length of rope. His arm being in a sling, he awkwardly tied a slipknot into the end of it and then stepped across and dropped the loop over St. Ives’s head before drawing the noose tight. Then he untied the Professor’s hands, all the time staring into his face with a dark look.
    “Up you go, cully,” he said, hauling on the rope, and St. Ives had to scramble to his feet to avoid strangling. For all that, he was grateful enough for the short jaunt into the trees, and for more reasons than one. He looked out for Mr. Goodson to let his guard down, and he meant to cause him some real harm before the Peddler could join the fray. But the man had the rope wrapped half a dozen times around his good hand, and would without a doubt keep St. Ives on a long tether, pulling him taut at the first hint of a false move. With his feet hobbled, the Professor would have little chance of prevailing, but even so, he watched for his chance, determining to force the issue while the odds were close to even.
    When they returned to the clearing again, the Peddler was standing at the wagon, pouring brandy into a cup. He nodded cheerfully at St. Ives. “Night-cap, Professor? Best you drink it while your hands are free. There’s more dignity in it.”
    Clearly the question was meant as a command, and St. Ives took the cup as if he were happy to oblige, tasting the brandy before consuming it, the bitter flavor of chloral nearly making him spit. “Cheers,” he said, and he pitched the brandy into the Peddler’s face, spun around so that he was facing Goodson, and grabbed the line, yanking Goodson forward and off balance, slamming him on the nose with his knee, hard enough so that the man’s head snapped back and he fell, the rope still wrapped around his hand. St. Ives was dragged forward, despite yanking savagely to free himself. The Peddler’s arms wrapped around his chest just then, and he was lifted bodily off the ground, getting in one last boot-heel blow that caught Goodson in the forehead.
    Goodson got up more slowly the second time, blood flowing from his nose. “Hold him still, Peddler,” he said. Securing the coil of rope even more tightly around his hand, he drew back his arm and hit the Professor savagely on the cheek, the rope cutting into his flesh. He would have struck him again if the Peddler hadn’t turned away.
    “Fetch the funnel,” the Peddler told him brusquely. “Give the rope to me.” He set St. Ives down, took the line from Goodson, and quickly tied St. Ives’s hands behind him again, so that his hands were tethered to his neck now. He pushed him back toward the bed of the wagon, still squinting his eyes against the sting of the brandy that St. Ives had flung into his face. “You’d best sit down of your own accord, Professor, or I’ll let Goodson have his way with you. That’s it. Now lie down on the straw there. He bound the Professor’s feet tightly now, doing a neat job of it, then walked over to where the cup had landed in the dirt and picked it up. He took a satchel from Goodson, from which he removed a bottle of French brandy, followed by another small bottle, clearly from a chemist’s shop, and a funnel with a long tube. He knocked the cup against the side of the wagon by way of cleaning it, and then poured brandy into it along with a heavy dose of chloral. St. Ives lay there looking up at the moon again, weighing