Hello, this is just a little short story that I wrote over the weekend and wanted to share. Mind you, this has not been revised so there might be mistakes. This story has depictions of violence and murder, please read at your own discretion. Thank you, and enjoy.
At the age of 9 I was saved from the tourchous clutches of Stallions Gate:Orphanage for Unwanted Boys and Girls. The man who adopted me claimed his name was Vincent, that he ran a tavern, a treasure trove of information, called The Ball and Basket. He was a tall man, around the age of 35, with a lanky build, pale skin, and bright blue eyes. He had a tuft of dull brown hair, just curling at the ends. A voice that was not raspy, but not smooth, and made me want to trust him. I was 15 when he died, that was 2 years ago. My face was full of color and I always had a full belly when going to bed. I remember the scene vividly. It was early July, the 7th to be exact, in 1893. Prince George had married Princess Mary of Terk just the day before and it was all the buzz. A royal wedding, bringing much light to all of London. I remember the air was warm, around 73 degrees, and a damp humidity hung in the air. Wind rushed over the cobblestone and dirt paved roads, causing clouds of dust to spring up. Vincent was running late to the tavern, and I had set off to find him. His home had loomed in front of me, all yellowish brown brick and ivy clinging to the sides. A 2 story masterpiece. I heard shouting, so I paused, hand on the wooden door, and my hesitation had cost Vincent his life.
“Nathaniel, open the bloody tavern!” A male voice said harshly, the words were quickly followed by a hard thunk from outside. A ‘lively’ customer had roused me from my sleep. I slide from my straw and downey feather mattress, and run a pale, long fingered, hand over my sleep tousled, silken, brown hair. A weary sigh escapes from between my chapped lips. I look around my loft for clean clothing, finding the outfit I wore the day before yesterday. A white collared shirt, starched stiff, and long black pants. One of the more formal outfits I owned. Throwing the outfit on, I trot down to the lower floor, and roughly yank open the rotting wood doors. A regular, Samuel Jameson, stands outside. His dirty blond hair is messy, and he runs a scratch marked hand through it, sad attempt at taming it.
“What do you need Jameson? I do hope you’ve roused me for something important,” I scowl, disturbed by his presence.
“You have my money? Cuz I got some good news for you. I know who killed VIncent all those years ago,” He smiles, about to get his pay of 20 shillings.
“Information first, then I’ll pay you,” I keep my face blank, focus on the rotted wood, malleable under my fingertips.
“It was Michael Brown. He sent some lackeys to do his dirty work,” He pauses, holds out his hand, and continues. “Can I have my money now, I have an appointment at the bakery. I can hear the biscuits calling my name.”
“Of course,” I reach my hand into my pocket, pull out my shillings, count out 20, and drop them into his grimy outstretched hand. “I hope that your biscuit is worth your shillings,” I say before closing the door in his face.
Michael Winchester Brown. A wealthy tavern owner, like myself, but richer than I’ll ever be. In their adolescent years, Vincent had mentioned being friends with Michael. They eventually grew apart, both opening a tavern that sold information. The Ball and Basket and The Clover’s Luck, are almost like sister taverns. Only 4 blocks and one bridge crossing away from each other, there is competition. The Ball and Basket sold reliable information for a higher price, the food was good enough, and the establishment was clean. On the other hand, The Clover’s Luck sold great food, but less reliable information, which meant some ploys fell flat. For two years, two long hard years, the culprit has been hiding right under my nose. Now that I’ve found him, I believe it is time to pay a friendly visit to his home.
I gather my supplies, and set off in the dead of night. Armed with rope, to climb to the top floor of his home, a sword, with a wooden circular sheath, disguising it as a cane, and a fake limp in my left leg, I take off down the familiar streets. Brown’s house is close to his tavern, only 2 blocks away in the richer part of London. I stumble across the bridge, turn right into the alley next to his tavern, and follow the dim lights all the way to his security gate. Only those with the coe word can enter. A word that I don’t have. Yet. I set off up the paved cobblestone path, and stand directly in front of the wrought iron gate. A guard stands in a small box, almost like the royal sentry box. Not that I’ve ever been to the palace. But every person can be bribed if the deal is good enough.
“Hey, you in the funny looking outfit, why are you standing guard? Some big shot live here or something?” I walk close to the gate and wrap a hand around a bar, the cold iron seeping into my skin. The guard looks around for a moment, as if checking that I’m really speaking to him, before stepping hesitantly out of his box and into the streetlight. His outfit is even more ridiculous up close. He is wearing a blue tunic, silver buttons all down the front and black pants. He has no hat, but his hair is combed back so harshly that his hairline looks to have been moved. With a pale face, he looks to be not much older than me. Good, it should be easier to get him to leave his post.
“What’cha want? I’m busy at the moment. You are also trespassing on private property. Can’tcha read the sign? Or are you just daft?” he smirks, happy to have something to pick on, happy to be out of the box.
“Don’t y’a be rude, I chose not to read the sign, not wanting to spoil the fun of talking to y’a,” I switch the way I speak to match his, easier to influence if we have something in common. Changing my stance so I lean heavier on my cane, I slouch over as if intimidated by his authority.
“Why? I don’t want to speak to y’a? What are y’a gonna do ‘bout it? Come to think of it, I am quite bored. Got any card games? I’d be willing to play,” he smiles, full of want. Want to leave his post, want to play a game with someone.
“No card games, but I do riddle rhymes. I win, you give me your pay, I lose, you take me to your master for trespassing. Deal?” I keep my tone friendly, smirk, and hold out my hand.
“Deal, I start,” He grabs my hand and shakes like a proper gentleman. His fingers are rough and calloused. Maybe I won’t have to climb the house after all. If I lose, I’ll get inside, and get to talk with Brown face to face.
“The cuckoo and the gowk, The laverock and the lark, The twire-snipe, the weather-bleak; How many birds is that?”
“Three birds,” I answer easily. “The second names are just different names for the same bird, “ I let out a quiet laugh, what a beginner’s riddle. I need to fail on a hard one, “My turn. Of flesh and blood sprung am I ever; But blood in me that find ye never. Many great lords bear me proudly, with sharp knives cutting me loudly. Many I’ve graced right honorably: Rich ones many I’ve humble made; Many within their grave I’ve laid!”
Silence stretches between us. Did I tell him one that is too hard? Is it going to ruin my chances of losing because he lost first? The first sliver of doubt starts to settle in when I hear his voice again.
“Wait, I know this one! It’s a pen. Cuz the lords cut the tips of them. Right?” he inquires with uncertainty.
“You’re correct. Your turn,” I hope this one is harder than the first.
“I’ve seen you where you never was, and where you ne’er will be; And yet you in that very same place may still be seen by me,” he sneers, hoping to stump me. And he will stump me, well, he thinks he’ll stump me. I know the answer to this one, it is the reflection of a face in a looking glass. Another beginner’s riddle. How lousy. I stand still, arms crossed against the biting night wind, and decide to give a completely wrong answer.
“Oh isn’t this the riddle involving the river. Am I right?” I stare at him straight in his blue eyes, willing him to take me to Brown.
A loud obnoxious laugh tears through the silent night, causing the hairs on my arms to stand on end. I don’t like hearing someone laugh at me so blatantly.
“You are so wrong! Yes, I’m gonna get y’a in trouble for trespassing now you little scoundrel,” a cruel smile marks his face. He no longer looks eager to leave his post, he looks ready to get a promotion. Maybe he will get a promotion. I got what I wanted and that’s all that matters to me. He grabs my arms roughly, and pulls me towards the gates and into the manor after him. Saying that Brown’s house is grand is an understatement. It is luxurious. A 4 story brick tower, with balconies at every level. The exterior brick is yellow, not a chip or scratch in sight. No ivy clings to the shaded walls, no stone in the path unturned or marked with dirt. Brown must be a perfectionist. We enter through the main entrance, and the guard calls for the butler to wake “Master Brown” So I stand in the foyer, the guard still holding on tight enough to leave a bruise. The walls are lined with photos of the last owners of the home. A moment later, a sleep deprived, but still formally dressed, man walks down the stairs. I have seen Michael Brown only once before. With his tan skin, he stands out from the bulk of London. He has a swatch of black hair, and dark brown eyes. A short stature, leading to a bit of pudginess. When he sees me, his face lights with recognition. I’m glad he remembers me.
“Nathaniel, to what do I owe you the pleasure at this ungodly hour. Could this trifle wait ‘till morning?” he smiles, a happy smile. He doesn’t know why I’m here yet.
“Michael,”I smile too, a fake smile but a smile nonetheless. ”Long time no see. I would like to speak to you in your office for just a moment if you can spare the time.”
“Of course. Oh and Robert,” he looks at the guard still holding me. “Do unhand him. He is a respectable gentleman. Nathaniel, do follow me.” We walk through various halls before ending up in front of a solid wood door. I continue with my ruse of a broken leg, follow him in the room and take a seat at the chair in front of the desk. Leaning my cane against the desk, I cross my legs, faux broken on top, and look up into Brown’s face.
“Why did you kill Vincent?” I’m blunt, straight to the point, and it surprises Michael.
“Good heavens,”He sputters, a dark look passing over his full face. “Whatever are you talking about? Vincent was my friend, I still mourn his death.”
“Ah yes, lying blatantly. And directly to my face too. You have some guts my good sir.”
I’m up and behind him before he realizes it. My sword freed from its sheath, pressing into the side of his fleshy neck.
“Don’t lie to me! Especially about mourning his death! You have no RIGHT to mourn his death! You conducted his MURDER,” I shout, my mask of indiference and stotic emotions breaking. If I press just a little harder, I’ll break the skin on his neck and he can bleed out on his office’s polished floor. I’d be gone before his body grows cold, and people start looking for him.
“I’m sorry for lying, I’ll be honest with you now. Yes, I sent lackeys to kill Vincent. I do regret it though. I needed the money to help support my aging family. My grandmother is dying and I was paying for her treatment. She needed help and getting rid of Vincent I believed I would be the only information tavern. I forgot he had adopted you though. A big mistake on my part. I would do it all again, killing you too, if it meant keeping my grandmother alive for some time longer.”
“Justifiable murder. Well not exactly what I was expecting from a greedy man like you. But I’ll give you two choices,” I press the blade into his neck causing blood to well up and fall, like little red rubies onto the floor. “You give me your rights to your tavern, and leave town tonight, or I kill you and let your grandmother find your body. Before you answer, yes, I can arrange for her specifically to find your body,” a smile ghosts over my lips, my emotions are back in check.
“I’ll leave. The papers are on the desk. Take whatever you want! PLEASE!” he’s afraid, trembling even. I walk over to the desk, slide open a few drawers, find the papers, and take them. At least he cracked easily.
“If you tell anybody what happened in the past few minutes, I’ll find you and kill you,” I say and spare him one final parting glance, a scathing look, before walking out through the door.