Read Online The Bloodless Boy by Robert J. Lloyd - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert J. Lloyd
Tags: Ian Pears, Umberto Eco, Carlos Ruiz Zafon, An Instance of the Fingerpost, Dissolution, Peter Ackroyd, C J Sansom, The Name of the Rose, The Hangman's Daughter, Oliver Pötzsch
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Dora-Katherina to him briefly, shaking Hooke by the hand, and acknowledging Harry’s assistance, the doctor scuttled off.
Hooke, staying with Dora-Katherina, directed Harry to further clean the study. Tom and his lantern followed, giving Harry the light he needed to inspect closely every surface in the room, looking for traces of Henry Oldenburg’s self-murder. When he had finished his scrutiny – and having wiped the chair, and the wall, and cleaned the gunpowder blown onto the floor with Oldenburg’s last breath – Harry carefully placed the pistol back into its box.
Before leaving he gave the chest a try, but it was firmly locked. He took the oilcloth bag from Tom, who still clutched it tightly. He saw the large coin, a copper farthing. Not having an extra hand, he put it in his pocket to take down to Dora-Katherina.
He picked up the pistol box and returned back down the stairs.
Observation XI
Of Deciphering
The last he sees, as the water turns from grey to green to black, are lines of fizzing air and water, like beams of light following after him. The last he feels is the lacing of his skin by the sand agitated in the churning water. The last he knows is the weight of saltwater in his chest . . .
Harry awoke with the convulsive movements of a drowning man, disturbed by the sound of his landlady climbing the stairs to his attic room. His rapid rise into consciousness confused him, taken from the depths of cold seawater in his dream to the heat of a sweat-damp sheet. A Norman barge, overburdened with stones to build the White Tower, had overturned, sending its load and its crew to the bottom of the sea.
He lay on his front, arms stretched forwards over the end of the mattress. The image of the sinking barge quickly faded. His hands were dead, and, as he shifted, pain prickled the flesh as the circulation returned.
Mrs. Hannam’s steps paused outside his door; a strip of candlelight leaked through the jamb. Did she press her ear against it, listening for any transgression of her firm house rules? It would be difficult to ever smuggle any girl past her, Harry thought, for all the attention she lavished upon him.
Or did she wish to break her own rules?
He heard her move away. If she wanted to enter, she had thought the better of it. Although she often caused him discomfort by her slightly desperate air of trying to please, the thought of her waiting on the other side of his door stirred his humours.
Mrs. Hannam was attractive, in a pinched, underfed kind of way. And who would not be pinched, suffering Mr. Hannam? Harry knew she often went without, for Mr. Hannam languished in the new gaol at Newgate, having instigated a brawl in a brothel, and he demanded money from his wife to keep the turnkeys sweet.
Harry sat up, sweat on his back despite the draught seeping through the casement. He pushed aside the blanket, fumbled for his spectacles, and lit a taper, which drooped limply in a small pot of water next to his bed. His tongue had a metallic taste. He took a mouthful of flat ale and rolled it around his gums.
Mrs. Hannam must have been curious about Tom’s arrival, and his going out to meet with Mr. Hooke. His late return, some hours later, would have done little to diminish her interest.
Harry shuddered again at the memory of the old Secretary sitting in his chair, the expression on Oldenburg’s face quite relaxed, looking as if he had merely dropped off to sleep, and that you might shake him awake again – until you saw the hole into his skull.
An eventful New Year’s Day: a boy found drained of his blood, his storing to preserve him at the Justice’s request, and the Secretary’s suicide.
He took the taper to his desk under the window. A board, with his tools hanging from it, was mounted on the wall, and on the floor beneath were boxes full of materials, stoppered jars, and smoothing papers. On the desk, chosen for its inbuilt and capacious drawers, sat his microscope, his small telescope
Hooke, staying with Dora-Katherina, directed Harry to further clean the study. Tom and his lantern followed, giving Harry the light he needed to inspect closely every surface in the room, looking for traces of Henry Oldenburg’s self-murder. When he had finished his scrutiny – and having wiped the chair, and the wall, and cleaned the gunpowder blown onto the floor with Oldenburg’s last breath – Harry carefully placed the pistol back into its box.
Before leaving he gave the chest a try, but it was firmly locked. He took the oilcloth bag from Tom, who still clutched it tightly. He saw the large coin, a copper farthing. Not having an extra hand, he put it in his pocket to take down to Dora-Katherina.
He picked up the pistol box and returned back down the stairs.
Observation XI
Of Deciphering
The last he sees, as the water turns from grey to green to black, are lines of fizzing air and water, like beams of light following after him. The last he feels is the lacing of his skin by the sand agitated in the churning water. The last he knows is the weight of saltwater in his chest . . .
Harry awoke with the convulsive movements of a drowning man, disturbed by the sound of his landlady climbing the stairs to his attic room. His rapid rise into consciousness confused him, taken from the depths of cold seawater in his dream to the heat of a sweat-damp sheet. A Norman barge, overburdened with stones to build the White Tower, had overturned, sending its load and its crew to the bottom of the sea.
He lay on his front, arms stretched forwards over the end of the mattress. The image of the sinking barge quickly faded. His hands were dead, and, as he shifted, pain prickled the flesh as the circulation returned.
Mrs. Hannam’s steps paused outside his door; a strip of candlelight leaked through the jamb. Did she press her ear against it, listening for any transgression of her firm house rules? It would be difficult to ever smuggle any girl past her, Harry thought, for all the attention she lavished upon him.
Or did she wish to break her own rules?
He heard her move away. If she wanted to enter, she had thought the better of it. Although she often caused him discomfort by her slightly desperate air of trying to please, the thought of her waiting on the other side of his door stirred his humours.
Mrs. Hannam was attractive, in a pinched, underfed kind of way. And who would not be pinched, suffering Mr. Hannam? Harry knew she often went without, for Mr. Hannam languished in the new gaol at Newgate, having instigated a brawl in a brothel, and he demanded money from his wife to keep the turnkeys sweet.
Harry sat up, sweat on his back despite the draught seeping through the casement. He pushed aside the blanket, fumbled for his spectacles, and lit a taper, which drooped limply in a small pot of water next to his bed. His tongue had a metallic taste. He took a mouthful of flat ale and rolled it around his gums.
Mrs. Hannam must have been curious about Tom’s arrival, and his going out to meet with Mr. Hooke. His late return, some hours later, would have done little to diminish her interest.
Harry shuddered again at the memory of the old Secretary sitting in his chair, the expression on Oldenburg’s face quite relaxed, looking as if he had merely dropped off to sleep, and that you might shake him awake again – until you saw the hole into his skull.
An eventful New Year’s Day: a boy found drained of his blood, his storing to preserve him at the Justice’s request, and the Secretary’s suicide.
He took the taper to his desk under the window. A board, with his tools hanging from it, was mounted on the wall, and on the floor beneath were boxes full of materials, stoppered jars, and smoothing papers. On the desk, chosen for its inbuilt and capacious drawers, sat his microscope, his small telescope
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