Hart Unfortunate Deaths of Jonathan Wild

1. Auflage 2014
ISBN: 978-0-9924922-4-3
Verlag: Improbable Fictions
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 366 Seiten

It is 1725. When petty thief Pascal Bonenfant meets merchant's daughter Rose Verney he vows to give up a life of crime, despite the threat of London crime boss Jonathan Wild. But Rose is in even more trouble than Pascal and before they can be happy he must save both of them from an evil priest, demonic angels and the not-quite-dead Jonathan Wild.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Hart, Stephen

Leseproben

Chapter One November 1724 They hanged Jack Sheppard on 16th November 1724 and everyone except Jack enjoyed the day out. He was the darling of the London mob, famous for his impossible escapes from Newgate Prison. Tyburn Road was thronged with well-wishers — young women threw him flowers and men cheered him. Even the ghosts of former executions applauded although I don’t think anyone but me noticed. At the triple tree itself he made a fine show, waving carelessly to the crowd as the rope was tied over the bar. Then they whipped up the horse and he swung off the cart into eternity. It was good for business. Pie men and milkmaids cried their wares and sold them rapidly to the hungry and thirsty crowd. Flower sellers coined enough profit for several weeks. The hangman made a fortune selling the rope for sixpence an inch. And my friend Todd and I picked some rich pockets in the dense and raucous Tyburn crowd. There was a riot afterwards with a fight over Jack’s body but it broke up when they sent in the Marshall’s men with bayonets. It was a good riot because Todd picked a pocketbook out of a prosperous pocket and it contained about twenty guineas in gold and silver, various documents and a banknote for one hundred and twenty pounds, nine shillings and fourpence. I remember the amount well for it represented a good year’s thieving for us and we went and celebrated enthusiastically. It was late by the time Todd and I climbed the three flights of dirty wooden stairs back to our room. We had been celebrating since the late afternoon and we were very drunk. Our clothes were rumpled and stained with drink and dirt. The lace at the bottom of my coat was torn and Todd’s stockings were laddered. It had truly been a wonderful debauch and we had enjoyed every minute. Todd slipped on a stair where someone had spilt some oil and went crashing back to the landing. Drunk as he was, he landed sprawling and without damage and we both laughed uproariously. I went and helped him up and, leaning heavily on each other, we stumbled upward, still giggling at his mishap. No one came out of their room to complain of the noise. It was not the sort of neighbourhood where you did that. There was a light under our door. We stopped giggling and looked at each other dubiously. Even drunk as we were we knew this was wrong — we had definitely not left a candle burning when we left and, in any case, it would have burned down after all those hours. I listened carefully and thought I heard a deep snuffling sound like some sort of large dog, although that was hardly likely. Who would take a dog up all those stairs? In imitation of gentlemen we were both wearing short swords. Neither of us knew how to use them properly but they were sharp. With a single thought we both took them out. Todd managed to cut his left hand in the process and swore. We could, I suppose, have just walked away, but we were cocksure and valiant with drink. Todd lifted a foot and, managing not to fall over, kicked open the door. Sitting in the room’s single chair was a man, reading a book by the light of a pair of candles. There was nothing particularly alarming about him. He was slim, neatly but unobtrusively dressed and of average height. His sober coat of grey wool hung open to reveal a plain moleskin waistcoat and breeches. His wig was smaller than was fashionable then. There was a three-cornered hat sitting on our small table. As we made our violent entrance he looked up, unconcerned, and carefully placed a strip of leather between the pages to mark his place before he put the book down beside his hat. Outraged, Todd stumbled drunkenly towards him, his sword pointing at the man’s chest. “Get out!” he said violently. “Get out before I run you through!” His speech was slightly slurred but his intent was more than clear. I followed him in, waving my own sword vaguely. The neat man seemed unworried. “Hook,” he said softly. Todd and I had a second to wonder what he meant, then the door slammed shut behind us with a crash. We jumped and turned and recoiled in horror. The candlelight flickered on a large, roughly dressed man and I very nearly pissed into my breeches. He was a dreadful sight. At some point in his past he had lost the lower part of his left arm and had instead the wickedly curved hook that clearly explained the neat man’s meaning and gave him his name. He stood awkwardly and at a slight angle suggesting injuries to his legs as well. But London is full of such sights. Far more horribly, you could see the great pox had its cold fingers tearing deep into his flesh. His nose was a ghastly, rotting mess, oozing pus, and his breath came in a harsh bubbling noise — unforgettable and hideous. How I could have mistaken it for a dog, I had no idea. The smell of decay hung about him, of rotting flesh that is dying but not yet dead. The disease had deformed his face and twisted his lips into the parody of a grin, contrasting insanely with the near-dead eyes above. You could not imagine getting mercy from this monster. You could not even imagine him understanding any plea you might make. To our horror he started to lurch forwards. “Hook!” called the neat man again, louder this time. The monster hesitated then once more lurched forward. “Arrêtez!” The dead eyes flickered and looked puzzled and he stopped. He looked around uncertainly then shuffled backwards and leant against the door. His right hand came across and pulled mindlessly on the hook on his left, twisting it back and forth. It was not a comforting sight. Both Todd and I were sobering rapidly. The other man turned his attention unhurriedly back to us. “My name,” he said in a precise, educated voice, “is Abraham Mendez. I am come from Mr Jonathan Wild.” Todd and I tore our eyes away from the horror by the door and gave him our full attention. Everyone in London knew Jonathan Wild. He controlled a great deal of the crime in the city and was feared by thieves everywhere. Abraham noted our reaction and nodded. “I see you know who he is,” he said, which was a rhetorical statement if I ever heard one. “Before I go any further,” he continued, “ I wish to explain about Hook so that there will be no misunderstandings.” The monster gave no sign of having heard, nor did Abraham acknowledge him in any way. “Hook is a very sick man. His mind is deranged. He is only in marginal control of himself. I am only marginally in control of him. I could make him become violent but I could not then stop him. Do you understand?” We understood all too well. My gut was knotted tight and from the greenish look on Todd’s face he felt the same way. We both nodded mutely. “Good. To business. This morning you stole a pocketbook from a young gentleman. As well as money, it had important papers in it. The young gentleman has asked Mr Wild to retrieve them. You were observed and will give the pocketbook to me.” I don’t think I even considered disobeying and it wasn’t just Hook, although God knows he was enough. Instinctively, I knew that neat men with quiet, confident voices were infinitely more dangerous than monsters. They are either sure of their power, or mad, or both. Fortunately for our continued good health, we had not discarded the pocketbook. We had considered doing so — the papers were after all of little use to us — but in the end had kept it as a convenient holder for the money. Todd took it carefully out of his pocket and handed it across. His hand was trembling badly but Abraham just took the pocketbook without comment and looked inside. All the papers, plus the unspent portion of the money were still there. So, unfortunately, was the banknote which we had not yet converted into cash. He got to his feet, stowing the pocketbook inside his coat. “You have put me to a great deal of trouble to find you,” he said. “I do not want to have to do so again. If you wish to become reader merchants you will inform Mr Wild whenever papers come into your possession and he will see that you are suitably rewarded.” He picked up his hat and the book he had been reading and turned to his companion. “Come, Hook,” he said and started towards the door. Hook didn’t react. He was looking at us with worrying intensity and his remaining claw-like hand was clenched into a tight, trembling fist. He lurched away from the door towards us. “Avec moi, Hook. Venez!” Hook hesitated, half turned to follow, then turned back to us. His pupils were dilating rapidly and small bubbles of spittle started to form around his mouth. “No Sebastian,” said Abraham under his breath. Both Todd and I pressed ourselves desperately back against the wall. “Sebastian!” Abraham called, and for the first time I heard a strain in his voice. “Venez avec moi, enfant. Votre maman attend.” I must have shown my shock for Abraham shot me a fast glance. The light in Hook’s eyes died and he looked confused. “Maman?” he said plaintively. “Attente en bas pour moi, Sebastian,” said Abraham gently. “Je serai avec tu.” The monster shuffled slowly out the door and down the stairs. Everyone in the room let out a deep breath. Abraham looked at me closely. “You speak French,” he said flatly. “What is your name?” “Bonenfant,” I replied. “Pascal Bonenfant.” “Huguenot family?” he asked. My parents were of Huguenot stock. They had fled France when Catholic persecution of the Protestant religion became too bad. There had been too many massacres and the Huguenots had left by the tens of thousands, despite being forbidden to do so. As well...